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RICHARD  AM)  mar(;aret. 


pp.  45.  4'!. 


THE  DAISY  CHAIN; 


OE, 


ASPIRATION'S 

§.  imilv  Cliranicle. 


AIjTHOE  of  "THE  HEIR  OF  EEDCLYFFE,"  "HEAJBTSEASE, 
ETC. 


'  To  the  highest  room, 
Earth's  lowliest  flowers  our  Lord  receives : 
Close  to  His  heart  a  place  He  gives, 
"VVTiere  they  shall  ever  bloom.' 


IN   TWO    VOLUMES. 
VOL.     I. 


NEW"  YOEK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

549    &    551    BROADWAY. 
1871. 


nil 
i/.  I 


PREFACE. 


No  one  can  be  more  sensible  tban  is  the  Author  that 
the  present  is  an  overgrown  book  of  a  nondescript  class, 
neither  the  "tale"  for  the  young,  nor  the  novel  for  their 
elders,  but  a  mixture  of  both. 

Begun  as  a  series  of  conversational  sketches,  the  story 
outran  both  the  original  intention  and  the  limits  of  the 
periodical  in  which  it  was  commenced  ;  and,  such  as  it  has 
become,  it  is  here  presented  to  those  who  have  alieady  made 
acquaintance  with  the  May  family,  and  may  be  willing  to 
see  more  of  them.  It  would  beg  to  be  considered  merely  as 
what  it  calls  itself,  a  Family  Chronicle — a  domestic  record 
of  home  events,  large  and  small,  during  those  years  of  early 
life  when  the  character  is  chiefly  formed,  and  as  an  endeav- 
our to  trace  the  effects  of  those  aspirations  which  are  a  part 
of  every  youthful  nature.  That  the  young  should  take  one 
hint,  to  think  whether  their  hopes  and  upward-breathinga 
are  truly  upwards,  and  founded  in  lowliness,  may  be  called 
the  moral  of  the  tale. 


IV  PREFACE. 


For  those  who  may  deem  the  Btory  too  long  and  the 
characters  too  numerous,  the  Author  can  only  beg  their  par- 
don for  any  tedium  that  tliey  may  have  undergone  before 
giving  it  up. 


Kkd.  22m.,  1866 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 


CHAPTER    I. 

*  SI  douce  est  la  ilarguerite.' — Chaucee- 

'  Miss  "Winter,  are  you  busy  ?  Do  you  want  tliis  afternoon  ? 
Can  you  take  a  good  long  walk  ?  ' 

'  Ethel,  my  dear,  how  often  have  I  told  you  of  your  impetuos- 
ity— you  have  forgotten.' 

'  Very  well'  — with  an  impatient  twist — '  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Good  morning.  Miss  Winter,'  said  a  thin,  lank,  angular,  sallow  girl, 
just  fifteen,  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  restrained  eagerness, 
as  she  tried  to  curb  her  tone  into  the  requisite  civility. 

'  Good  morning,  Ethel,  good  morning,  Flora,'  said  the  prim, 
middle-aged,  daily  governess,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  arranging 
the  stiff  little  rolls  of  curl  at  the  long,  narrow  looking-glass,  the 
border  of  which  distorted  the  countenance. 

'  Good  morning,'  properly  responded  Flora,  a  pretty,  fair  girl, 
nearly  two  years  older  than  her  sister. 

'  WiU  you — '  began  to  burst  from  Etheldred's  lips  again,  but 
was  stifled  by  Miss  Winter's  inquiry,  '  Is  your  mamma  pretty  well 
to-day  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  very  well,'  said  both  at  once  ;  '  she  is  coming  to  the  read- 
ing.'    And  Flora  added, '  Papa  is  going  to  drive  her  out  to-day.' 

'  I  am  very  glad.     And  the  baby  ?  ' 

'  I  do  believe  she  does  it  on  purpose  ! '  whispered  Ethel  to  her- 
self, wriggling  fearfully  on  the  wide  window-seat  on  which  she  had 
precipitated  herself,  and  kicking  at  the  bar  of  the  table,  by  which 
manifestation  she  of  course  succeeded  in  deferring  her  hopes,  by  a 
reproof  which  caused  her  to  draw  herself  into  a  rigid,  melan- 
choly attitude,  a  sort  of  penance  of  decorum,  but  a  rapid  motion 
of  the  eyelids,  a  tendency  to  crack  the  joints  of  the  fingers,  and  an 
unquietness  at  the  ends  of  her  shoes,  betraying  the  restlessness  of 
the  digits  therein  contained. 

It  was  such  a  room  as  is  often  to  be  found  in  old  country  town 
houses,  the  two  large  windows  looking  out  on  a  broad  old-fashioned 
street,  through  heavy  framework,  and  panes  of  glass  scratched  with 


0  TUE   DAISV    CHAIN. 

various  names  and  initials.  The  walls  were  painted  blue,  the 
bkirting  almost  a  third  of  the  height,  and  so  wide  at  the  top  as 
to  form  a  narrow  shelf.  The  fire-place,  constructed  in  the  days 
when  fires  were  made  to  give  as  little  heat  as  possible,  was  orna- 
mented with  blue  and  white  Dutch  tiles  bearing  marvellous  repre- 
sentations of  Scripture  history,  and  was  protected  by  a  very  tall 
green  guard ;  the  chairs  were  much  of  the  same  date,  solid  and 
heavy,  the  scats  in  faded  carpet-work,  but  there  was  a  sprinkling 
of  kvs'jr  ones  and  of  stools ;  a  piano ;  a  globe ;  a  large  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  with  three  desks  on  it;  a  small  one,  and 
a  light  cane  chair  by  each  window;  and  loaded  book-cases.  Flora 
began,  '  If  you  don't  want  this  afternoon  to  yourself — ' 

Ethel  was  on  her  feet,  and  open-mouthed.  '  0,  Miss  "Winter ! 
if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  walk  to  Cocksmoor  with  us.' 

'  To  Cocksmoor,  my  dear  ! '  exclaimed  the  governess  in  dismay. 

'  Yes,  yes,  but  hoar,'  cried  Ethel.  '  It  is  not  for  nothing. 
Yesterday — ' 

'  No,  the  day  before,'  interposed  Flora. 

'  There  was  a  poor  man  brought  into  the  hospital.  He  had 
been  terribly  hurt  in  the  quarry,  and  papa  says  he'll  die.  He  was 
in  great  distress,  for  his  wife  has  just  got  twins,  and  there  were 
lots  of  children  before.  They  want  everything — food  and  clothes 
— and  we  want  to  walk  and  take  it.' 

'We  had  a  collection  of  clothes  ready,  luckily,'  said  Flora; 
'  and  we  have  a  blanket,  and  some  tea  and  some  arrowroot,  and  a 
bit  of  bacon,  and  mamma  says  she  does  not  think  it  too  far  for  us 
to  walk,  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  go  with  us.' 

Mi-ss  Winter  looked  perplexed.  *  llow  could  you  carry  the  blau 
kot,  my  dear  ?' 

'  O,  wc  have  settled  that,'  said  Ethel,  '  we  mean  to  make  the 
donkey  a  sumptcr-mule,  so,  if  you  are  tired,  you  may  ride  home 
on  her.' 

'  But,  my  dear,  baa  your  mamma  considered  ?  They  are  such 
a  set  of  wild  people  at  Cocksmoor ;  I  don't  think  we  could  walk 
there   alone.' 

'  It  is  Saturday,'  said  Ethel,  '  wc  can  get  the  boys.' 

'  If  you  would  reflect  a  little  !  They  would  be  no  protection. 
Harry  would  be  getting  into  scrapes,  and  you  and  Mary  running 
wild.' 

'  I  wi.sh  ]lichard  was  at  home  ! '  said  Flora. 

'  I  know  ! '  cried  Ethel.  '  Mr.  Ernesclifi'e  will  come.  I  am 
Bure  lie  can  walk  so  far  now.     Ill  a.sk  him.' 

Ethel  had  clapped  after  her  the  heavy  door  with  its  shining 
bra.ss  lock,  before  Mi.-^s  "Winter  well  knew  what  she  was  about,  and 
the  governess  seemed  annoyed.  '  Ethel  does  not  consider,'  said 
she.     '  I  don't  think  your  mamma  will  be  pleased.' 

'  Why  not  ?  '  .said  Flora. 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  7 

'J^TLdea^— a  gentleman  walking  with  you,  especially  if  Marga- 
ret is  going7~         ~~ — • 

'  i  don't  think  he  is  strong  enough,'  said  Flora ;  '  but  I  can't 
think  why  there  should  be  any  harm.  Papa  took  us  all  out  walk- 
ing with  him  yesterday — little  Aubrey  and  all,  and  Mr.  ErnesclifFe 
went.' 

'  But  my  dear — ' 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  fine  tall  blooming 
girl  of  eighteen,  holding  in  her  hand  a  pretty  little  maid  of  five. 
'  Good  morning.  Miss  Winter.  I  suppose  Flora  has  told  you  the 
request  we  have  to  make  to  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,  my  dear  Margaret,  but  did  your  mamma  consider  what  a 
lawless  place  Cocksmoor  is  ?  ' 

'  That  was  the  doubt,'  said  Margaret,  '  but  papa  said  he  would 
answer  for  it  nothing  would  happen  to  us,  and  mamma  said  if  you 
would  be  so  kind.' 

'  It  is  unlucky,'  began  the  governess,  but  stopped  at  the  incur- 
sion of  some  new  comers,  nearly  tumbling  over  each  other,  Ethel 
at  the  head  of  them.  '  Oh  !  Harry  ! '  as  the  gathers  of  her  frock 
gave  way  in  the  rude  grasp  of  a  twelve-years-old  boy.  '  Miss 
Winter,  'tis  all  right — Mr.  Ernesclifie  says  he  is  quite  up  to  the 
walk,  and  will  like  it  very  much,  and  he  will  undertake  to  defend 
you  from  the  quarrymen.' 

'  Is  Miss  Winter  afraid  of  the  quarrymen  ? '  hallooed  Harry. 
'  Shall  I  take  a  club  ?  ' 

'  I'll  take  my  gun  and  shoot  them,'  valiantly  exclaimed  Tom ; 
and  while  threats  were  passing  among  the  boys,  Margaret  asked, 
in  a  low  voice,  '  Did  you  ask  him  to   come  with  us  ? ' 

'  Yes,  he  said  he  should  like  it  of  all  things.  Papa  was  them 
and  said  it  was  not  too  far  for  him — besides,  there's  the  donkey. 
Papa  says  it,  so  we  must  go.  Miss  Winter.' 

Miss  Winter  glanced  unutterable  things  at  Margaret,  and  Ethel 
began  to  perceive  she  had  done  something  wrong.  Flora  was  going 
to  speak,  when  Margaret,  trying  to  appear  unconscious  of  a  certain 
deepening  colour  in  her  own  cheeks,  pressed  a  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, and  whispering, '  I'll  see  about  it.  Don't  say  any  more,  please,' 
glided  out  of  the  room. 

'  What's  in  the  wind?  '  said  Harry.  '  Are  many  of  your  reefs 
out  there,  Ethel  ?  ' 

'  Harry  can  talk  nothing  but  sailor's  language,'  said  Flora,  '  and 
I  am  sure  he  did  not  learn  that  of  Mr.  ErnesclifFe.  You  never 
hear  slang  from  him.' 

'  But  aren't  we  going  to  Cocksmoor  ? '  asked  Mary,  a  blunt 
downright  girl  of  ten. 

'  We  shall  know  soon,'  said  EtheJ.  '  I  suj^pose  I  had  better  wait 
till  after  the  reading  to  mend  that  horrid  frock  ?  ' 

'I  think  so.  since  we  are  so  nearly  collected,'  said  Miss  Win 


fr  THE    DAISV    CIIAIX. 

tor;  and  Ethel,  seating  herself  on  the  corner  of  the  window-seat 
with  one  leg  doubled  under  her,  took  up  a  Shakespeare,  holding  it 
close  to  her  eyes,  and  her  brother  Norman,  who,  in  age,  came  be- 
tween her  and  Flora,  kneeling  on  one  knee  on  the  window-seat, 
and  supporting  himself  with  one  arm  against  the  shutter,  leant 
over  her,  reading  it  too,  disregarding  a  tumultuous  skirmish  going 
on  in  that  division  of  the  family  collectively  termed  '  the  boys,' 
namely,  Harry,  Mary,  and  Tom,  until  Tom  was  suddenly  pushed 
di>wn  and  tumbled  over  into  Kthel's  lap  thereby  upsetting  her  and 
Norman  together,  and  there  was  a  general  downfall,  and  a  loud 
scream,  '  The  sphynx  !  ' 

'  You've  crushed  it,'  cried  Harry,  dealing  out  thumps  indis- 
criminately. 

'No,  here  'tis,'  said  Mary,  rushing  among  them,  and  bringing 
out  a  green  sphynx  caterpillar,  on  her  linger — '  tis  not  hurt.' 

'•Fax!  Fax!''  cried  Norman,  over  all,  with  the  voice  of  an 
authority,  as  he  leapt  up  lightly  and  set  Tom  on  his  legs  again. 
*  Harry  !  you  had  better  do  that  again,'  he  added,  warningly.  '  Be 
oil",  out  of  this  window,  and  let  Ethel  and  me  read  in  peace.' 

'  Here's  the  place,'  said  Ethel — '  Crispin,  Crispiau's  day.  How 
I  do  like  Henry  V.' 

'It  is  no  use  to  try  to  keep  those  boys  in  order  !'  sighed  Miss 
Winter. 

'  Saturnalia,  as  papa  calls  Saturday,'  replied  Flora. 

'  Is  not  your  eldest  brother  coming  home  to-day  ? '  said  Miss 
AVinter,  in  a  low  voice  to  Flora,  who  shook  her  head,  and  said,  con- 
ridcntially,  '  He  is  not  coming  till  he  has  passed  that  examination. 
He  thinks  it  better  not.' 

Here  entered,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  a  lady  with  a  beautiful 
countenance  of  calm  sweetness,  looking  almost  too  young  to  be  the 
mother  of  the  tall  Margaret,  who  followed  her.  There  was  a  gen- 
eral hush  as  she  greeted  Miss  Winter,  the  girls  crowding  round  to 
look  at  their  little  sister,  not  quite  six  weeks  old. 

'  Now,  Margaret,  will  you  take  her  up  to  the  nursery  ?  '  said  the 
mother,  while  the  impatient  speech  was  repeated,  '  Mamma,  can  wo 
go  to  Cocksmoor'r" 

'  You  don't  think  it  will  bo  too  far  for  you?'  said  the  mother 
to  3Iiss  Winter,  as  ^largaret  departed. 

'  0  no,  not  at  all,  thank  you,  that  was  not —  But  Margaret  has 
explained.' 

'  Y''es,  poor  Margaret,'  said  Mrs.  May,  smiling.  '  She  has  set- 
tled it  by  choosing  to  stay  at  home  with  me.  It  is  no  matter  for 
the  others,  and  he  is  going  on  Monday,  so  that  it  will  not  happen 
again.' 

'  Margaret  has  behaved  very  well,'  said  Miss  Winter. 
'  She  bas  indeed,'  said  her  mother,  smiling.    *  Well,  Harry  how 
ia  the  caterpillar  ?  ' 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  9 

*  They've  just  capsized  it,  mamma,'  answered  Harry,  *  and  Mary 
is  making  all  taut.' 

Mrs.  3Iay  laughed,  and  proceeded  to  advise  Ethel  and  Norman 
to  put  away  Henry  V.,  and  find  the  places  in  their  Bibles,  '  or  you 
will  have  the  things  mixed  together  in  your  heads,'  said  she. 

In  the  mean  time  Margaret,  with  the  little  babe,  to-morrow  to 
be  her  godchild,  lying  gently  in  her  arms,  came  out  into  the  matted 
hall,  and  began  to  mount  the  broad  shallow-stepped  stair-case,  pro- 
tected by  low  stout  balusters,  with  a  very  thick  flat  and  solid  ma- 
hogany hand-rail  polished  by  the  boys'  constant  riding  up  and  down 
upon  it.  She  was  only  on  the  first  step,  when  the  dining-room  door 
opened,  and  there  came  out  a  young  man,  slight,  and  delicate-look- 
ing, with  bright  blue  eyes,  and  thickly-curling  light  hair.  '  Acting 
nurse  ? '  he  said  smiling.  '  What  an  odd  little  face  it  is !  I  didn't 
think  little  white  babies  were  so  pretty !  Well,  I  shall  always 
consider  myself  as  the  real  godfather — the  other  is  all  a  sham.' 

'  I  think  so,'  said  Margaret,  '  but  I  must  not  stand  with  her  in 
a  draught,'  and  on  she  went,  while  he  called  after  her.  '  So  we  are 
to  have  an  expedition  to-day.' 

She  did  not  gainsay  it,  but  there  was  a  little  sigh  of  disap- 
pointment, and  when  she  was  out  of  hearing,  she  whispered,  '  Oh ! 
lucky  baby,  to  have  so  many  years  to  come  before  you  are  plagued 
with  troublesome  propriety  ! ' 

Then  depositing  her  little  charge  with  the  nurse,  and  trying  to 
cheer  up  a  solemn-looking  boy  of  three,  who  evidently  considered 
his  deposition  from  babyhood  as  a  great  injury,  she  tripped  lightly 
down  again,  to  take  part  in  the  Saturday's  reading  and  catechising. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  that  large  family  in  the  hush  and  rever- 
ence of  such  teaching,  the  mother's  gentle  power  preventing  the 
outbreaks  of  restlessness  to  which  even  at  such  times  the  wild  young 
spirits  were  liable.  Margaret  and  Miss  Winter  especially  rejoiced 
in  it  on  this  occasion,  the  first  since  the  birth  of  the  baby,  that 
she  had  been  able  to  preside.  Under  her,  though  seemingly  with- 
out her  taking  any  trouble,  there  was  none  of  the  smothered  laugh- 
ing at  the  little  ones'  mistakes,  the  fidgetting  of  the  boys,  or 
Harry's  audacious  impertinence  to  Miss  Winter ;  and  no  less  glad 
was  Harry  to  have  his  mother  there,  and  be  guarded  from  himself. ' 

The  Catechism  was  repeated,  and  a  comment  on  the  Sunday 
Services  read  aloud.  The  Grospel  was  that  on  the  taking  the  low- 
est place,  and  when  they  had  finished,  Ethel  said,  '  I  like  the  verse 
which  explains  that : 

''  They  who  now  sit  lowest  here, 
When  their  Master  shall  appear, 
He  shall  bid  them  higher  rise, 
And  be  highest  in  the  skies." ' 

'  I  did  not  think  of  that  being  the  meaning  of  "  when  He  that 
bade  thee  cometS,"  '  said  Norman,  thoughtfully. 
1* 


]<"»  TI!K    DAISY    CHAIX. 

'  It  gccmed  to  be  onlj-  our  worldly  advantage  that  was  meant 
bcforo,'  said  Ethel. 

'  AVcll,  it  mcaus  that  too,'  said  Flora. 

'  I  suppose  it  does,'  said  ]\Irs.  3Iaj;  'but  the  higher  sense  is 
the  one  cliiefly  to  be  dwelt  on.  It  is  a  lesson  how  those  least 
known  and  regarded  here,  and  humblest  in  their  own  eyes,  shall 
be  tiie  highest  hereafter.' 

And  .Margaret  looked  earnestly  at  her  mother,  but  did  not  speak. 

'  May  we  go,  nianiuia  V  '  said  Mary. 

'  Yes,  you  tliree — all  of  you,  indeed,  unless  you  wish  to  say  any 
more.' 

The '  boys '  availed  themselves  of  the  permission.  Norman  tarried 
tn  put  his  books  into  a  neat  leather  case,  and  Ethel  stood  thinking. 
'  It  means  altogether — it  is  a  lesson  against  ambition,'  said  she. 

'  True,'  said  her  mother,  '  the  love  of  eminence  for  its  own  sake.' 

'  And  in  so  many  different  ways !  '  said  Margaret. 

*  Aye,  worldly  greatness,  riches,  rank,  beauty,'  said  Flora. 

'  All  sorts  of  false  flash  and  nonsense,  and  liking  to  be  higher 
tlian  one  ought  to  be,'  said  Norman.  '  I  am  sure  there  is  nothing 
lower,  or  more  mean  and  .sliabby,  than  getting  places  and  praise  a 
fellow  does  not  deserve.' 

'  Oh!  yes!"  cried  Ethel, 'but  no  one  fit  to  speak  to  would  do  that!' 

'  rienty  of  jicople  do,  I  can  tell  you,'  said  Norman. 

'  Then  I  hope  I  shall  never  know  who  they  are  ! '  exclaimed 
Ethel.  '  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking  of,  mamma.  Caring 
to  be  clever,  and  get  on,  only  for  the  sake  of  beating  people.' 

'I  think  that  might  be  better  expressed.' 

'I  know,'  said  Ethel,  bending  her  brow,  with  the  fulness  of  her 
thought — '  I  mean  caring  to  do  a  thing  only  because  nobody  else 
can  do  it — wanting  to  be  first  more  than  wanting  to  do  one's  best.' 

'  You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  Ethel,'  said  her  mother;  'and  I 
am  glad  you  have  found  in  the  Gospel  a  practical  lesson,  that  should 
be  useful  to  you  both.  I  had  rather  you  did  so  than  that  you  read 
it  in  (ireek,  though  that  is  very  nice  too,'  she  added,  smiling,  as 
she  put  her  hand  on  a  little  Greek  Testament,  in  which  Ethel  had 
been  reading,  within  her  English  Bible.  '  Now,  go  and  mend  that 
dfplorablc  frock,  and  if  you  don't  dream  over  it,  you  won't  waste 
too  much  of  your  holiday.' 

'I'll  get  it  done  in  no  time!'  cried  Ethel  rushing  head-long 
up-stairs,  twice  tripping  in  it,  before  she  reached  the  attic,  where 
^h(;  slept,  as  well  as  Flora  and  Mary — a  large  room  in  the  roof, 
the  windows  gay  with  bird-cages  and  flowers,  a  canary  singing  loud 
enough  to  deafen  any  one  but  girls  to  whom  headaches  were  Tin- 
known,  plenty  of  books  and  tnasures,  and  a  very  fine  view,  from 
the  dormer-window,  of  the  town  sloping  downwards,  and  the  river 
winding  away,  witli  some  heathy  hills  in  the  distance.  I'oking  and 
[leering  about  with  her  short-sighted  eyes,  Ethel  Ifghted  on  a  work- 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  li 

basket  in  rare  disorder,  piilled  off  her  frock,  threw  on  a  shawl,  and 
sat  down  cross-legged  on  her  bed,  stitching  vigorously,  while  mean- 
time she  spouted  with  great  emphasis  an  ode  of  Horace,  which 
Norman  having  learnt,  by  heart,  she  had  followed  his  example; 
it  being  her  great  desire  to  be  even  with  him  in  all  his  studies,  and 
thou'T]i  eleven  months  younger,  she  had  never  yet  fallen  behind 
him.  On  Saturday,  he  showed  her  what  were  his  tasks  for  the 
week,  and  as  soon  as  her  rent  was  repaired,  she  swung  herself  down- 
stairs in  search  of  him  for  this  purpose.  She  found  him  in  the 
drawing-room,  a  pretty  pleasant  room — its  only  fault  that  it  was 
rather  too  low.  It  had  windows  opening  down  to  the  lawn,  and 
was  full  of  pretty  things,  works  and  knicknacks.  Ethel  found  the 
state  of  affairs  unfavourable  to  her.  Norman  was  intent  on  a  book 
on  the  sofa,  and  at  the  table  sat  Mr.  Erneseliffe,  hard  at  work  with 
calculations  and  mathematical  instruments.  Ethel  would  not,  foi 
the  world,  that  any  one  should  guess  at  her  classical  studies — she 
scarcely  liked  to  believe  that  even  her  father  knew  of  them,  and 
to  mention  them  before  Mr.  Erneseliffe  would  have  been  dreadful. 
So  she  only  shoved  Norman,  and  asked  him  to  come. 

'  Presently,'  he  said. 

'  What  have  you  there  ?  '  said  she,  poking  her  head  into  the  book. 
'  0  !  no  wonder  you  can't  leave  off.  I've  been  wanting  you  to 
read  it  all  the  week.' 

She  read  over  him  for  a  few  minutes,  then  recoiled :  '  I  forgot, 
mamma  told  me  not  to  read  those  stories  in  the  morning.  Only 
five  minutes,  Noi-man.' 

'  Wait  a  bit,  I'll  come.' 

She  fidgetted,  till  Mr.  Erneseliffe  asked  Norman  if  there  was 
a  table  of  logarithms  in  the  house. 

'  0  yes,'  she  answered ;  '  don't  you  know,  Norman  ?  In  a 
brown  book  on  the  upper  shelf  in  the  dining-room.  Don't  you 
remember  papa's  telling  us  the  meaning  of  them,  when  we  had  the 
grand  book-dusting.' 

He  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  his  book ;  however,  she  found 
the  loo-arithms,  and  brought  them  to  Mr.  Erneseliffe,  staying  to 
look  at  his  drawing,  and  asking  what  he  was  making  out.  He  re- 
plied, smiling  at  the  impossibility  of  her  understanding,  but  she 
wrinkled  her  brown  forehead,  ho:(ked  her  long  nose,  and  spent  the 
next  hour  in  amateur  navigation. 

Market  Stoneborough  was  a  fine  old  town.  The  Minster,  grand 
with  the  architecture  of  the  time  of  Henry  III.,  stood  beside  a  broad 
river,  and  round  it  were  the  buildings  of  a  Convent,  made  by  a  cer- 
tain good  Bishop  Whichcote,  the  nucleus  of  a  grammar  school,  which 
had  survived  the  Reformation,  and  trained  up  many  good  scholars  ; 
among  them,  one  of  England's  princely  merchants,  Nicholas  Ean- 
dall,  whose  efiigy  knelt  in  a  niche  in  the  Chancel  wall,  scarlet- 
cloaked,  white-ruffed,  and  black-doubletted,  a  desk  bearing  an  open 


12  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

Bible  before  biin,  and  a  twisted  pillar  of  Derbysbirc  spar  on  each 
Bide.  He  Avas  tbe  founder  of  thirteen  almshouses,  and  had  endowed 
two  scholarships  at  Oxford,  the  object  of  ambition  of  the  Stone 
borough  boys,  every  eighteen  months. 

There  were  about  sixty  or  seventy  boarders,  and  the  town  boys 
slept  at  home,  and  spent  their  weekly  holiday  there  on  Saturday 
— the  happiest  day  in  the  week  to  the  May  family,  when  alone, 
they  had  the  company  at  dinner  of  Norman  and  Harry,  otherwise 
known  by  their  school  names  of  June  and  July,  given  them  because 
their  elder  brother  had  begun  the  scries  of  months  as  May. 

Some  two  hundred  years  back,  a  Doctor  Thomas  May  had  been 
head  master,  but  ever  since  that  time  there  had  always  been  an 
M.  D.,  not  a  1).  D.,  in  the  family,  owning  a  comfortable  demesne 
of  spacious  garden,  and  field  enough  for  two  cows,  still  green  and 
intact,  among  modern  buildings  and  improvements. 

The  present  Dr.  3Iay  stood  very  high  in  his  profession,  and 
might  soon  have  made  a  large  fortune  in  London,  had  he  not  held 
fast  to  his  home  attachments.  He  was  extremely  skilful  and  clev- 
er, with  a  boyish  character  that  seemed  as  if  it  could  never  grow 
older;  ardent,  sensitive,  and  heedless,  with  a  quickness  of  sympa- 
thy and  tenderness  of  heart  that  was  increased  rather  than  blunt- 
ed, by  exercise  in  scenes  of  sufi'ering. 

At  the  end  of  the  previous  summer  holidays,  Dr.  May  had  been 
called  one  morning  to  attend  a  gentleman  who  had  been  taken  very 
ill,  at  the  Swan  Inn. 

He  was  received  by  a  little  boy  of  ten  years  old,  in  much  grief, 
explaining  that  his  brother  had  come  two  days  ago  from  Loudon, 
to  bring  him  to  school  here ;  be  had  seemed  unwell  ever  since  they 
met,  and  la.st  night  had  become  much  worse.  And  extremely  ill 
the  Doctor  found  him ;  a  youth  of  two  or  three-and-twenty,  suflfer- 
ing  under  a  severe  attack  of  fever,  oppressed,  and  scarcely  con- 
scious, so  as  quite  to  justify  his  little  brother's  apprehensions. 
He  advised  the  boy  to  write  to  his  family,  but  was  answered  by  a 
look  that  went  to  his  heart — '  Alan '  was  all  he  had  in  the  world — 
father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  their  relations  lived  in  Scotland, 
and  were  hardly  known  to  them. 

'  Where  have  you  been  living,  then  ?  ' 

'  Alan  sent  me  to  school  at  Miss  Lawler's,  when  my  mother 
died,  and  there  I  have  been  ever  since,  while  he  has  been  these 
three  years  and  a  half  on  the  African  station.' 

'  What,  is  he  in  the  navy  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  the  boy,  proudly,  '  Lieutenant  ErnescliflFo.  He  got 
his  promotion  last  week.  3Iy  father  was  in  the  battle  of  Trafalgar; 
and  Alan  has  been  three  years  in  the  West  Indies,  and  then  he  was 
in  the  Mediterranean,  and  now  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  in  the  Ata-> 
tontis.     You  must  have  heard  about  him,  for  it  was  in  the  news 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  ]3 

paper,  how,  when  he  was  mate,  he  had  the  conimand  of  the  Santa 
[sabel,  the  slaver  they  captured.' 

The  boy  would  have  gone  on  for  ever,  if  Dr.  May  had  not  re- 
called him  to  his  brother's  present  condition,  and  proceeded  to  take 
every  measure  for  the  welfare  and  comfort  of  the  forlorn  pair. 

He  learnt  from  other  sources  that  the  ErnesclifFes  were  well 
connected.  The  father  had  been  a  distinguished  officer,  but  had 
been  ill  able  to  provide  for  his  sons  5  indeed,  he  died,  without  ever 
haviug  seen  little  Hector,  who  was  bom  during  his  absence  on  a 
voyage — his  last,  and  Alan's  first.  Alan,  the  elder  by  thirteen 
years,  had  been  like  a  father  to  the  little  boy,  showing  judgment 
and  self-denial  that  marked  him  of  a  high  cast  of  character.  He 
had  distinguished  himself  in  encounters  with  slave  ships,  and  in 
command  of  a  prize  that  he  had  had  to  conduct  to  Sierra  Leone,  he 
had  shown  great  coolness  and  seamanship,  in  several  perilous  con- 
junctures, such  as  a  sudden  storm,  and  an  encounter  with  another 
slaver,  when  his  Portuguese  prisoners  became  mutinous,  and  nothing 
but  his  steadiness  and  intrepidity  had  saved  the  lives  of  himself 
and  his  few  English  companions.  He  was,  in  fact,  as  Dr.  May  re- 
ported, pretty  much  of  a  hero.  He  had  not,  at  the  time,  felt  the 
effects  of  the  climate,  but,  owing  to  sickness  and  death  among  the 
other  officers,  he  had  suffered  much  fatigue,  and  pressure  of  mind 
and  body.  Immediately  on  his  return,  had  followed  his  examina- 
tion, and  though  he  had  passed  with  great  credit,  and  it  had  been 
at  once  followed  by  well-earned  promotion,  his  nervous  excitable 
frame  had  been  overtasked,  and  the  consequence  was  a  long  and 
severe  illness. 

The  Swan  inn  was  not  forty  yards  from  Dr.  May's  back  gate, 
and,  at  every  spare  moment,  he  was  doing  the  part  of  nurse  as  well 
as  doctor,  professionally  obliged  to  Alan  Ernescliffe  for  bringing 
him  a  curious  exotic  specimen  of  fever,  and  requiting  him  by  the 
utmost  care  and  attention,  while,  for  their  own  sakes,  he  delighted 
in  the  two  boys  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his  warm  heart.  Before 
the  first  week  was  at  an  end,  they  had  learned  to  look  on  the  Doctor 
as  one  of  the  kindest  friends  it  had  been  their  lot  to  meet  with,  and 
Alan  knew  that  if  he  died,  he  should  leave  his  little  brother  in  the 
hands  of  one  who  would  comfort  him  as  a  father. 

No  sooner  was  young  Ernescliffe  able  to  sit  up,  than  Dr.  May 
insisted  on  conveying  him  to  his  own  house,  as  his  recovery  was 
likely  to  be  tedious,  in  solitude  at  the  Swan.  It  was  not  till  he 
had  been  drawn  in  a  chair  along  the  sloping  garden,  and  placed  on 
the  sofa  to  rest,  that  he  discovered  that  the  time  the  good  Doctor 
had  chosen  for  bringing  a  helpless  convalescent  to  his  house,  was 
two  days  after  an  eleventh  child  had  been  added  to  his  family. 

Mrs.  May  was  too  sorry  for  the  solitary  youth,  and  too  sympa- 
thizing with  her  husband,  to  make  any  objection,  though  she  waa 
not  fond  of  strangers,  and  had  some  anxieties.     She  had  the  ut 


14  'tiie  daisy  chain. 

most  dependence  on  Margaret's  discretion,  but  there  was  a  chanct 
of  awkward  situations,  which  papa  was  not  likely  to  see  or  guard 
against.  However,  all  seemed  to  do  very  well,  and  no  one  ever 
came  into  her  room  without  some  degree  of  rapture  about  31  r 
ErnoscliQe.  Tlie  Doctor  reiterated  praises  of  his  excellence,  his 
jiriiiciple,  his  ability  and  talent,  his  amusing  talk ;  the  girls  were 
always  bringing  reports  of  his  perfections ;  Kornian  retracted  his 
grumblings  at  having  his  evenings  spoilt ;  and  '  the  boj's  '  were 
bursting  with  the  secret  that  he  was  teaching  them  to  rig  a  little 
ship  that  was  to  astonish  mamma  on  her  first  coming  down  stairs 
and  to  be  named  alter  the  baby  ;  while  Blanche  did  all  the  coquetry 
with  him,  from  which  Margaret  abstained.  The  univer.sal  desire 
was  for  mamma  to  see  him,  and  when  the  time  came,  she  owned 
that  papa's  Hwan  had  not  turned  out  a  goose. 

There  were  now  no  grounds  for  prolonging  his  stay ;  but  it  was 
very  hard  to  go,  and  lie  was  glad  to  avail  himself  of  the  excuse  of 
remaining  for  the  Christening,  when  he  was  to  represent  the  absent 
godfather.  After  that,  he  must  go ;  he  had  written  to  his  Scottish 
cousins  to  ofl'er  a  visit,  and  he  had  a  promise  that  he  should  soon 
be  afloat  again.  jS'o  place  would  ever  seem  to  him  so  like  home  as 
Market  Stoncborough.  lie  was  quite  like  one  of  themselves,  and 
took  a  full  share  in  the  discussion  on  the  baby's  name,  which,  as  all 
tlie  old  family  appellations  had  been  used  vip,  was  an  open  question 
Tlie  Doctor  protested  against  Alice  and  Edith,  which  he  said  were 
the  universal  names  in  the  present  day.  The  boys  hissed  evci*y 
attempt  of  their  sisters  at  a  romantic  name,  and  then  Harry  wanted 
it  to  be  Atalautis!  At  last  Dr.  May  announced  that  he  should 
have  her  named  Dowsabel  if  they  did  not  agree,  and  Mrs.  May 
advised  all  the  parties  concerned,  to  write  their  choice  on  a  slip  of 
paper,  and  little  Aubrey  should  draw  two  out  of  her  bag,  trusting 
that  Atalantis  Dowsabel  would  not  come  out,  as  Harry  confidently 
predicted. 

However,  it  was  even  worse,  Aubrey's  two  lots  were  Gertrude 
and  Margaret.  Ethel  and  Mary  made  a  vehement  uproar  to  dis- 
cover who  could  have  written  Margaret,  and  at  last  traced  it  home 
to  Mr.  Erncscliffe,  who  replied  that  Flora,  without  saying  wliy, 
had  desired  him  to  set  down  his  favourite  name.  He  was  much 
disconcerted,  and  did  not  materially  mend  the  matter  by  saying  il 
Wiis  the  first  name  that  camo  into  his  head. 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  15 

CHAPTEKII. 

'Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied.' — Milton. 

Ethel's  navigation  lesson  was  interrupted  by  the  dinner-bell.  Tliat 
long  table  Avas  a  goodly  sight.  Few  ever  looked  happier  than  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  May,  as  they  sat  opposite  to  each  other,  presenting  a  con- 
siderable contrast  in  appearance  as  in  disposition.  She  was  a  little 
woman,  with  that  smooth  pleasant  plumpness  that  seems  to  belong 
to  perfect  content  and  serenity,  her  complexion  fair  and  youthful, 
her  face  and  figure  very  pretty,  and  full  of  quiet  grace  and  refine- 
ment, and  her  whole  air  and  expression  denoting  a  serene,  unruffled, 
affectionate  happiness,  yet  with  much  authority  in  her  mildness — 
warm  and  open  in  her  own  family,  but  reserved  beyond  it,  and 
shrinking  from  general  society. 

The  Doctor,  on  the  contrary  had  a  lank,  bony  figure,  nearly  six 
feet  high,  and  looking  more  so  from  his  slightness ;  a  face  sallow, 
thin,  and  strongly  marked,  an  aquiline  nose,  highly  developed  fore- 
head, and  peculiar  temples,  over  which  the  hair  strayed  in  thin 
curling  flakes.  His  eyes  were  light-coloured,  and  were  seldom  seen 
without  his  near-sighted  spectacles,  but  the  expressions  of  the 
mouth  were  everything — so  varying,  so  bright,  and  so  sweet  were 
the  smiles  that  showed  beautiful  white  teeth — moreover,  his  hand 
was  particularly  well  made,  small  and  delicate ;  and  it  always 
turned  out  that  no  one  ever  recollected  that  Dr.  May  was  plain, 
who  had  ever  heard  his  kindly  greeting. 

The  sons  and  daughters  were  divided  in  likeness  to  father  and 
mother;  Ethel  was  almost  an  exaggeration  of  the  Doctor's  peculi- 
arities, especially  at  the  formed,  but  unsoftened  age  of  fifteen  ;  Nor- 
man had  his  long  nose,  sallow  complexion,  and  tall  figure,  but  was 
much  improved  by  his  mother's  fine  blue  eyes,  and  was  a  very  pleas- 
ant-looking boy,  though  not  handsome ;  little  Tom  was  a  thin,  white, 
delicate  edition  of  his  father;  and  Blanche  contrived  to  combine 
great  likeness  to  him  with  a  great  deal  of  prettiness.  Of  those  that, 
as  nurse  said,  favoured  their  mamma,  Margaret  was  tall  and  bloom- 
ing, with  the  same  calm  eyes,  but  with  the  brilliance  of  her  father's 
smile  ;  Flora  had  greater  regularity  of  feature,  and  was  fast  becom- 
ing a  very  pretty  girl,  while  Mary  and  Harry  could  not  boast  of 
much  beauty,  but  were  stout  sturdy  pictures  of  health ;  Harry's 
locks  in  masses  of  small  tight  yellow  curls,  much  given  to  tangling 
and  matting,  unfit  to  be  seen  all  the  week,  till  nurse  put  him  to 
torture  evei*y  Saturday,  by  combing  them  out  so  as,  at  least,  to  make 
him  for  once,  like,  she  said,  a  gentlem.an,  instead  of  a  young  lion. 

Little  Aubrey  was  said  by  his  papa  to  be  like  nothing  but  the 
full  moon.     And  there  he  shone  on  them,  by  his  mamma's  side,  an- 


16  Tin:  DAISY  CHAIN. 

nouncing  in  language  few  could  understand,  where  he  had  been 
with  papa. 

'  He  has  been  a  small  doctor,'  said  his  father,  beginning  to  cut 
the  boiled  beef  as  fast  as  if  his  hands  had  been  moved  by  machinery. 
'  He  has  been  with  nic  to  sec  old  Mrs.  Robins,  and  she  made  so 
much  of  him,  that  if  I  take  you  again,  you'll  be  regularly  spoilt, 
young  master.' 

'Poor  old  woman,  it  must  have  been  a  pleasure  to  her,' said 
Mrs.  May — '  it  is  so  seldom  she  has  any  change.' 

'  Who  is  she  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Erncscliffe. 

'  The  butclier's  old  mother,'  said  Margaret,  who  was  next  to 
him.  '  She  is  one  of  papa's  pet  patients,  because  he  thinks  her 
desolate  and  ill-used.' 

'  Iler  sons  bully  her,'  said  the  doctor,  too  intent  on  carving  to 
perceive  certain  deprecatory  glances  of  caution  cast  at  him  by  his 
wife,  to  remind  him  of  the  presence  of  man  and  maid — '  and  that 
smart  daughter  is  worse  still.  She  never  conies  to  see  the  old  lady 
but  she  throws  her  into  an  agitated  state,  fit  to  bring  on  another 
attack.     A  meek  old  soul,  not  fit  to  contend  witli  them  ! ' 

'  Why  do  they  do  it  ? '  said  Ethel. 

'  For  the  cause  of  all  evil !  That  daughter  marries  a  grazier,  and 
wants  to  set  up  for  gentility ;  she  comes  and  squeezes  presents  out 
of  her  mother,  and  the  whole  family  are  distrusting  each  other,  and 
squabbling  over  the  spoil  before  the  poor  old  creature  is  dead !  It 
makes  one  sick  !  I  gave  that  Mrs.  Thornc  a  bit  of  my  mind  at 
last;  I  could  not  stand  the  sight  any  longer.  Madam,  said  I, 
you'll  have  to  answer  for  your  mother's  death,  as  sure  as  my  name's 
Dick  May — a  harpy  dressed  up  in  feathers  and  lace,' 

There  was  a  great  laugh,  and  an  entreaty  to  know  whether 
this  was  really  his  address — Ethel  telling  him  she  knew  he  had 
muttered  it  to  himself  quite  audibly,  for  wliich  she  was  rewarded 
by  a  pretended  box  on  the  car.  It  certainly  was  vain  to  expect 
order  at  dinner  on  Saturday,  for  the  Doctor  was  as  bad  as  the  boys, 
and  Mrs.  ]May  took  it  with  complete  composure,  hardly  appearing 
eensible  of  tlie  Babel  which  would  sometimes  almost  deafen  its 
promoter,  papa  ;  and  yet  her  interference  was  all-powerful,  as  now 
when  Harry  and  Mary  were  sparring  over  the  salt,  with  one  gentle 
'  Mary  ! '  and  one  reproving  glance,  they  were  reduced  to  quiescence. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  May,  in  a  voice  above  the  tumult,  Avas  telling 
*  Maggie,'  as  he  always  called  his  wife,  some  piece  of  news  about 
Mr.  Rivers,  who  had  bought  Abbotstokc  Grange  ;  and  Alan  Ernos- 
clifle,  in  much  lower  tones,  saying  to  Margaret  how  he  delighted  in 
the  sight  of  tlic^e  home  scenes,  and  this  free  household  mirtii. 

'  It  is  the  first  time  you  have  seen  us  in  perfection,'  said  Mar- 
garet, '  with  mamma  at  the  head  of  the  table — no,  not  quite  f  er 
lection  either,  without  Richard.' 


THE    DAISY    CnAIN.  17 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  have  seen  it,'  repeated  Alan.  '  What  a 
blessing  it  must  be  to  your  brothers  to  have  such  a  home  ! ' 

*  Yes,  indeed,'  said  Margaret,  earnestly. 

'  I  cannot  fancy  any  advantage  in  life  equal  to  it.  Your  father 
and  mother  so  entirely  one  with  you  all.' 

Margaret  smiled,  too  much  pleased  to  speak,  and  glanced  at 
her  mother's  sweet  face. 

*  You  can't  think  how  often  I  shall  remember  it,  or  how  rejoiced 
I — '  He  broke  off,  for  the  noise  subsided,  and  bis  speech  was  not 
intended  for  the  public  ear,  so  he  dashed  into  the  general  conver- 
sation, and  catching  his  own  name,  exclaimed,  '  AVhat's  that  base 
proposal,  Ethel  ? ' 

'  To  put  you  on  the  donkey,'  said  Norman. 

'  They  want  to  see  a  sailor  riding,'  interposed  the  doctor. 

'  Dr.  May  ! '  cried  the  indignant  voice  of  Hector  Ernescliffe,  as 
his  honest  Scottish  face  flushed  like  a  turkey  cock,  '  I  assure  you 
that  Alan  rides  like — ' 

'  Like  a  horse  marine,'  said  Norman. 

Hector  and  Harry  both  looked  furious,  but  "  June  "  was  too 
great  a  man  in  their  world,  for  them  to  attempt  any  revenge,  and  it 
was  left  for  Mary  to  call  out,  *  Why,  Norman,  nonsense  !  Mr.  Ernes- 
cliffe rode  the  new  black  kicking  horse  till  he  made  it  quite  steady.' 

'  Made  it  steady !  No,  Mary,  that  is  saying  too  much  for  it,' 
said  Mr.  Ernescliffe. 

'  It  has  no  harm  in  it — capital  horse — splendid,'  said  the  Doc- 
tor; '  I  shall  take  you  out  with  it  this  afternoon,  Maggie.' 

'  You  have  driven  it  several  times  ?  '  said  Alan. 

'  Yes,  I  drove  him  to  Abbotstoke  yesterday — never  started, 
except  at  a  fool  of  a  woman  with  an  umbrella,  and  at  the  train — 
and  we'll  take  care  not  to  meet  that.' 

'  It  is  only  to  avoid  the  viaduct  at  half-past  four,'  said  Mrs. 
May,  '  and  that  is  easily  done.' 

'  So  you  are  bound  for  Cocksmoor  ?  '  said  the  Doctor.  '  I  told 
the  poor  fellow  you  were  going  to  see  his  wife,  and  he  was  so 
thankful,  that  it  did  one's  heart  good.' 

'  Is  he  better  ?     I  should  like  to  tell  his  wife,'  said  Flora. 

The  Doctor  screwed  up  his  face.  'A  bad  business,'  he  said ;  'he 
is  a  shade  better  to-day ;  he  may  get  through  yet ;  but  he  is  not 
my  patient.  I  only  saw  him  because  I  happened  to  be  there  when 
he  was  brought  in,  and  Ward  was  not  in  the  way.' 

'  And  what's  his  name  ?  ' 

'  I  can't  tell — don't  think  I  ever  heard.' 

'  We  ought  to  know,'  said  Miss  Winter ;  '  it  would  be  awkward 
to  go  without.' 

»       '  To  go  roaming  about  Cocksmoor  asking  where  the  man  in  tho 
hospital  lives  ! '  said  Flora.     '  We  can't  wait  till  Monday.' 


18  TllK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

'  I've  done,' said  Norman;  'I'll  run  down  to  the  hospital  and 
Ond  out.     May  I,  mamma?  ' 

*  Without  your  pudding,  old  fellow  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  want  pudding,'  said  Norman,  slipping  back  his  chair. 
•  May  I,  mamma  V  ' 

'  To  be  sure  you  may;  '  and  Norman,  with  a  hand  on  the  back 
of  Etliid's  chair,  took  a  iiying  leap  over  his  own,  that  set  all  the 
glasses  ringing. 

'  Stop,  stop  !  know  wliat  you  arc  going  after,  .sir,'  cried  his  father. 
'  What  will  tliey  know  there  of  Cocksmoor,  or  tlie  man  whose  wifa 
has  twins  ?     You   must  ask  for  the  accident  in  number  five.' 

'  And  oh  !  Norman,  come  back  in  time,'  said  Ethel. 

'  I'll  be  bound  I'm  back  before  Etheldred  the  Unready  wants 
me,'  he  answered,  bounding  off  with  an  elasticity  that  caused  his 
mother  to  say  the  boy  was  made  of  Indian  rubber,  and  then  put- 
ting his  head  in  by  the  window  to  say,  '  By-the-by,  if  there's  any 
pudding  owing  to  me,  that  little  chorister  fellow  of  ours.  Bill 
Blake,  has  got  a  lot  of  voracious  brothers  that  want  anything  that's 
going.  Tom  and  Blanche  might  take  it  down  to 'em;  I'm  off! 
Hooray  !  '  and  he  scampered  headlong  up  the  garden,  prolonging 
his  voice  into  a  tremcndou.s  shout  as  he  got  further  off,  leaving 
every  one  laughing,  and  his  mother  tenderly  observing  that  ho  was 
going  to  run  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  back,  and  lose  his  only  chance 
of  pudding  for  the  week — old  Bishop  AVhichcote's  rules  contem- 
plating no  fare  but  daily  mutton,  to  be  bought  at  a  shilling  per 
sheep.  A  little  private  discussion  ensued  between  Harry  and  Hec- 
tor, on  the  merits  of  the  cakes  at  Ballhatchet's  gate,  and  old 
Nelly's  pics,  which  led  the  doctor  to  mourn  over  the  loss  of  the 
tarts  of  the  cranberries,  that  used  to  grow  on  Cocksmoor,  before 
it  was  inhabited,  and  to  be  the  delight  of  the  scholars  of  Stone- 
borough,  when  he  was  one  of  them — and  then  to  enchant  the  boys 
by  relations  of  ancient  exploits,  especially  his  friend  Spencer  elimb- 
ijig  up,  and  engraving  a  name  on  the  toj)  of  the  market  cross,  now 
no  more,  swept  away  by  the  Town  Council  in  a  fit  of  improvement, 
which  had  for  the  last  twenty  years  enraged  the  Doctor  at  every 
remembrance  of  it.  Perhaps  at  this  moment  his  wife  could  hardly 
sympathize,  wiien  she  tiiought  of  her  boys  enmlating  such  deeds. 

'  Papa,'  said  Etiiel,  '  will  you  lend  me  a  pair  of  spectacles  for 
the  walk  V ' 

'  And  make  yourself  one,  Ethel,'  said  Flora. 

'  I  don't  care — I  want  to  see  the  view.' 

'  It  is  very  bad  for  you,  Ethel,'  further  added  her  mother;  '  you 
will  make  your  sight  much  shorter  if  you  accustom  your  eyes  to  them,' 

'  Well,  mamma,  I  never  do  wear  them  about  the  house.' 

'  For  a  very  good  reason,'  said  Margaret ;  '  because  you  haven't - 
got  them.' 

'  No,  I  believe  Harry  stole  them  in  the  holidays.' 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  If) 

*  Stole  tliem  !  '  said  the  Doctor  ;  '  as  if  they  weren't  my  prop- 
erty, unjustifiably  appropriated  by  her  I ' 

'  They  Tvere  that  pair  that  you  never  could  keep  on,  papa,'  said 
Ethel — '  no  use  at  all  to  you.     Come,  do  lend  me  some.' 

'  I'm  sure  I  shan't  let  you  wear  them,'  said  Harry.  '  I  shan't 
go,  if  you  choose  to  make  yourself  such  an  object.' 

'  Ah  ! '  said  the  father,  '  the  boys  thought  it  time  to  put  a  stop 
to  it  when  it  came  to  a  caricature  of  the  little  Doctor  in  petticoats.' 

'  Yes,  in  Norman's  Lexicon,'  said  Ethel,  '  a  capital  likeness  of 
you,  papa ;  but  I  never  could  get  him  to  tell  me  who  drew  it.' 

Nor  did  Ethel  know  that  that  caricature  had  been  the  cause  of 
the  black  eye  that  Harry  had  brought  home  last  summer.  Harry 
returned,  to  protest  that  he  would  not  join  the  walk,  if  she  chose 
to  be  seen  in  the  spectacles,  while  she  undauntedly  continued  her 
petition  though  answered  that  she  would  attract  the  attacks  of  the 
C|uarry-men  who  would  take  her  for  an  attenuated  owl. 

*I  wish  you  were  obliged  to  go  about  without  them  yourself, 
papa!'  cried  Ethel,  '  and  then  you  would  know  how  tiresome  it  is 
not  to  see  twice  the  length  of  your  own  nose.' 

'  Not  such  a  very  short  allowance  either, '  said  the  Doctor, 
t^uaintly,  and  therewith  the  dinner  concluded.  There  was  apt  to  be 
a  race  between  the  two  eldest  girls,  for  thf.  honour  of  bringing  down 
the  baby ;  but  this  time  their  father  strode  up  three  steps  at  once, 
turned  at  the  top  of  the  first  flight,  made  his  bow  to  them,  and 
presently  came  down  with  his  little  daughter  in  his  arms,  nodded 
triumphantly  at  the  sisters,  and  set  her  down  on  her  mother's  lap. 

'  There,  Maggie,  you  are  complete,  you  old  hen-and-chicken  daisy. 
Can't  you  take  her  portrait  in  the  character,  3Iargafet  ? ' 

'  With  her  pink  cap,  and  Blanche  and  Aubrey  as  they  are  now, 
on  each  side  ?  '  said  Flora. 

'  Margaret  ought  to  be  in  the  picture  herself,'  said  Ethel. 
'  Fetch  the  artist  in  Norman's  Lexicon,  Harry.' 

'  Since  he  has  hit  off  one  of  us  so  well,'  said  the  doctor. 
'  Well !  I'm  off.  I  must  see  old  Southern.  You'll  be  ready  by 
three?  Good-bye,  hen  and  chicken.' 

'And  I  may  have  the  spectacles?'  said  Ethel,  running  after 
him;  'you  know  I  am  an  injured  individual,  for  mamma  won't  let 
me  carry  baby  about  the  house,  because  I  am  so  blind.'. 

'  You  are  welcome  to  embellish  yourself,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned.' 

A  general  dispersion  ensued,  and  only  Mrs.  May,  Margaret, 
and  the  baby,  remained. 

'  0  no  ! '  sighed  Margaret ;  '  you  can't  be  the  hen-and-chicken 
daisy  properly,  without  all  your  chickens.  It  is  the  first  christen- 
ing we  ever  had  without  our  all  being  there.' 

'  It  was  best  not  to  press  it,  my  dear,'  said  her  mother.  *  Your 
papa  would  have  had  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  disappointment 


20  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

agaiL,  and  it  makes  Ilichard  Liniself  so  unhappy  to  Bee  his  vexation 
that  I  believe  it  is  better  not  to  renew  it.' 

*  IJut  to  miss  him  for  so  long  ! '  said  Margaret.  '  Perhaps  it  is 
best,  for  it  is  very  miserable,  when  papa  is  sarcastic  and  sharp,  and 
he  cannot  understand  it,  and  takes  it  as  meaning  so  much  morr 
than  it  really  does,  and  grows  all  the  more  frightened  and  diffident 
I  cannot  think  what  he  would  do  without  you  to  encourage  him.' 

'  Or  you,  you  good  sister,'  said  her  mother,  smiling.  '  If  we 
could  only  teach  him  not  to  mind  being  laughed  at,  and  to  have 
Borae  contidence  in  himself,  he  and  papa  would  get  on  together.' 

'  It  is  very  hard,'  cried  Margaret,  almost  indignantly, '  that  papa 
won't  believe  it,  when  he  does  his  best ! ' 

'  I  don't  think  jjapa  can  bear  to  bring  himself  to  believe  that 
it  is  his  best.' 

'  He  is  too  clever  himself  to  see  how  other  people  can  be  slow,' 
said  Margaret ;  '  and  yet ' — the  tears  came  into  her  eyes — '  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  his  telling  Ilichard  it  was  no  use  to  think  of  being 
a  Clergyman,  and  he  had  better  turn  carpenter  at  once,  just  because 
he  had  failed  in  his  examination.' 

*  My  dear,  I  wish  you  would  forget  that,'  said  Mrs.  May.  '  You 
know  papa  sometimes  says  more  than  he  means,  and  he  was 
excessively  vexed  and  disappointed.  I  know  he  was  pleased  with 
Ritchie's  resolve  not  to  come  home  again  till  he  had  passed,  and  it 
is  best  that  it  should  not  be  broken.' 

*  The  whole  vacation,  studying  so  hard,  and  this  Christening  ! ' 
said  Margaret ;  '  it  is  treating  him  as  if  he  had  done  wrong.  I  do 
believe  Mr.  Ernescliffe  thinks  he  has — for  papa  always  turns  away 
the  conversation,  if  his  name  is  mentioned  !  I  wish  you  would 
explain  it,  mamma ;  I  can't  bear  ihat.^ 

'  If  I  can,'  said  Mrs.  May,  rather  pleased  that  Margaret  had 
not  taken  on  herself  this  vindication  of  her  favourite  brother  at  her 
father's  expense.  '  But  after  all,  Margaret,  I  never  feel  quite  sure 
that  poor  llitchie  does  exert  himself  to  the  utmost ;  he  is  too  de- 
sponding to  make  the  most  of  himself 

'  And  the  more  vexed  papa  is,  the  worse  it  grows !  '  said 
Margaret.  '  It  irf  provoking,  though.  How  I  do  wish  sometimes 
to  give  Ritchie  a  jog,  when  there  is  some  stumbling-block  that  he 
sticks  fast  at.  Don't  you  remember  those  sums,  and  those  declen- 
sions? When  he  is  so  clear  and  sensible  about  practical  matters 
too — anything  but  learning — I  cannot  think  why — and  it  is  very 
mortifying ! ' 

*  I  dare  say  it  is  very  good  for  us  not  to  have  our  ambition 
gratified,'  said  her  mother.  '  There  are  so  many  troubles  worse 
than  these  failures,  that  it  only  shows  how  happy  we  arc  that  wc 
should  take  them  so  nmch  to  heart.' 

'  Tiicy  are  a  very  real  trouble  ! '  said  Margaret.  '  Don't  smile, 
mamma.     Only  remember   how  wretched  his  school   days   were, 


■  THE   DAISY    CHAIX.  21 

when  papa  could  not  see  any  difficulty  in  what  to  him  was  so  hard, 
and  how  all  papa's  eagerness  only  stupified  hiui  the  more.' 

'  They  are  a  comfort  not  to  have  that  over  again.  Yet,'  said 
the  mother,  '  I  often  think  there  is  more  fear  for  Norman.  I  dread 
his  talent  and  success  being  snares.' 

'  There  is  no  self-sufficiency  about  him,'  said  Margaret. 

'  I  hope  not,  and  he  is  so  transparent,  that  it  would  be  laughed 
down  at  the  first  bud ;  but  the  universal  good  report,  and  certainty 
of  success,  and  being  so  often  put  in  comparison  with  Richard,  ia 
hardly  safe.     I  was  very  glad  he  heard  what  Ethel  said  to-day.' 

'  Ethel  spoke  very  deeply,'  said  Margaret ;  '  I  was  a  good  deal 
struck  by  it-— she  often  comes  out  with  such  solid  thoughts.' 

'  She  is  an  excellent  companion  for  Norman.' 

'  The  desire  of  being  first ! '  said  Margaret,  '  I  suppose  that  is  a 
form  of  caring  for  oneself!  It  set  me  thinking  a  good  deal,  mamma, 
how  many  forms  of  ambition  there  are.  The  craving  for  rank,  or 
wealth,  or  beauty,  are  so  clearly  wrong,  that  one  does  not  question 
about  them ;  but  I  suppose,  as  Ethel  said,  the  caring  to  be  first  in 
attainments  is  as  bad.' 

'  Or  in  affection,'  said  Mrs.  May. 

'  In  affection — oh !  mamma,  there  is  always  some  one  person 
with  whom  one  is  first,'  said  Margaret,  eagerly;  and  then,  her 
colour  deepening,  as  she  saw  her  mother  looking  at  her,  she  said 
hastily,  '  Ritchie — I  never  considered  it — but  I  know — it  is  my 
great  pleasure — oh,  mamma  ! ' 

'  Well,  my  dear,  I  do  not  say  but  that  you  are  the  first  with 
Richard,  and  that  you  well  deserve  to  be  so ;  but  is  the  seeking  to 
be  the  first  even  in  that  way  safe  ?     Is  it  not  self-seeking  again  ?  ' 

'  Well,  perhaps  it  is.     I  know  it  is  what  makes  jealousy.' 

'  The  only  plan  is  not  to  think  about  ourselves  at  all,'  said  Mrs. 
May.  '  Affection  is  round  us  like  sunshine,  and  there  is  no  use  in 
measuring  and  comparing.  We  must  give  it  out  freely  ourselves, 
hoping  for  nothing  again.' 

*  O,  mamma,  you  don't  mean  that ! ' 

'  Perhaps  I  should  have  said,  bargaining  for  nothing  again.  It 
will  come  of  itself,  if  we  don't  exact  it ;  but  rivalry  is  the  sure 
means  of  driving  it  away,  because  that  is  trying  to  get  oneself 
worshipped.' 

'  I  suppose,  then,  you  have  never  thought  of  it,'  said  Margaret, 
smiling. 

'  AVhy,  it  would  have  been  rather  absurd,'  said  Mrs.  May,  laugh- 
ing, <  to  begin  to  torment  myself,  whether  you  were  all  fond  of  me  1 
you  all  have  just  as  much  affection  for  me,  from  beginning  to  end, 
as  is  natural,  and  what's  the  use  of  thinking  about  it  ?  No,  no, 
Margaret,  don't  go  and  protest  that  you  love  me,  more  than  is 
natural,'  as  Margaret  looked  inclined  to  say  something  very  eager, 
that  would  be  in  the  style  of  Regan  and  Goneril.     It  will  be 


22  THK  .DAIbY    CHAIX. 

natural  by-and-by  that  you  should,  Bome  of  you,  love  some  one  clsa 
better  and  if  I  cared  for  being  first,  what  should  I  do  then  ?  ' 

'  0,  inamnia  ! — But,'  said  Margaret,  suddenly,  '  3'ou  are  always 
sure  of  paj)a.'  , 

*  In  one  way,  yes,'  said  Mrs.  May;  '  but  how  do  I  know  how 
long — '  Calm  as  she  was,  she  could  not  finish  that  sentence. 
*  No,  Margaret,  depend  upon  it,  the  only  security  is,  not  to  think- 
about  ourselves  at  all,  and  not  to  fix  our  mind  on  any  aflection  on 
earth.  The  least  share  of  tlie  Love  above,  is  the  fulness  of  all 
blessing,  and  if  we  seek  that  first,  all  these  things  will  be  added 
unto  us,  and  are,'  she  whispered  more  to  herself  than  to  Margaret. 


CHAPTER    III. 

'  Wee  mo(le?t  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Ttio'i'.'t  met  me  in  an  evil  hour. 
For  I  maun  crush  ainang  tho  stoure 

Tliy  »lcMiler  stem. 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power. 

Thou  bonnio  gem." — Burks. 

Is  this  all  the  walking  party  ? '  exclaimed  Mr.  Ernescliffe,  as  Miss 
Winter,  Flora,  and  Norman  gatliered  in  the  haU. 

'  JIarry  won't  go  because  of  Ethel's  spectacles,'  answered  Flora; 
'  and  Mary  and  he  are  inseparable,  so  they  are  gone  with  Hector  to 
have  a  shipwreck  in  the  field.' 

'  And  your  other  sisters  ? ' 

'  Margaret  has  ratted — she  is  going  to  drive  out  with  mamma,' 
said  Norman ;  '  as  to  Ethcldred  the  Unready,  I'll  run  up  and  hurry 
her.' 

'  In  a  moment  he  was  at  her  door.  '  Oh !  Norman,  come  in 
Is  it  time?' 

'I  should  think  so  !     You're  keeping  every  one  waiting.' 

'  Oh  dear  !  go  on ;  only  just  tell  mo  the  past  participle  of  ofero, 
and  I'll  catch  you  up.' 

'  Oblatus: 

'  0,  yes,  how  stupid.  The  a  long  or  short  ?  Then  that's  right. 
I  had  such  a  line  in  my  head.  I  was  forced  to  write  it  down.  la 
not  it  a  capital  subject  this  time  ? ' 

'The  devotion  of  Decius?  Capital.  Let  me  see ?' said  Nor- 
man, taking  up  a  paper  scribbled  in  pencil,  with  Latin  verses.  '  0 
you  have  taken  up  quite  a  different  line  from  mine.  I  began  with 
3lount  Vesuvius  ."^pouting  lava  like  anything.' 

'  liut  Mount  Vesuvius  didn't  spout  till  it  overthrew  Pompeii.' 

'  Murder  ! '  cried  Norman,  *  I  forgot !  It's  lucky  yeu  put  me  in 
inind.  I  must  make  a  fresh  beginning.  There  go  my  six  best 
lines  !     However,  it  was  an  uncanny  place,  fit  for  hobgoblins,  and 


TinO    DAISY    CHAIN.  23 

shades,  and  funuy  customers,  which  will  do  as  well  for  my  purpose, 
Ha !  that's  grand  about  its  being  so  much  better  than  the  va7ia 
gloria  iriumphalis — only  take  care  of  the  scanning  there — ' 
'  If  it  was  but  English.     Something  like  this  : — 

For  what  is  equal  to  the  fame 
Of  forgetting  self  in  the  aim. 

That's  not  right,  but — ' 

'  Ethel,  Norman,  what  are  you  about  ?  '  cried  Flora,  '  Do  you 
mean  to  go  to  Cocksmoor  to-day  ? ' 

*  Oh  yes  ! '  cried  Ethel,  flying  into  vehement  activity  ;  '  only 
I  ve  lost  my  blue-edged  handkerchief — Flora,  have  you  seen  it  ?  ' 

'  No  ;  but  here  is  your  red  scarf 

'  Thank  you,  there  is  a  good  Flora.  And  oh  !  I  finished  a  frock 
all  but  two  stitches.  Where  is  it  gone  ?  Go  on,  all  of  you,  I'll 
overtake  you — 

Purer  than  breath  of  earthly  frara?, 
Is  losing  self  in  a  glorious  aim. 

Is  that  better,  Norman  ?  ' 

'  You'll  drive  us  out  of  patience,'  said  Flora,  tying  the  handker- 
chief round  Ethel's  throat,  and  pulling  out  the  fingers  of  her  gloves, 
which  of  course  were  inside  out ;  '  are  you  ready  ?  '     , 

'  Oh,  my  frock !  my  frock  !  There  'tis — three  stitches — go  on, 
and  I'll  come,'  said  Ethel,  seizing  a  needle,  and  sewing  vehemently 
at  a  little  pink  frock.  'Go  on.  Miss  Y/inter  goes  slowly  up  the 
hill,  and  I'll  overtake  you.' 

'  Come,  Norman,  then ;  it  is  the  only  way  to  make  her  come  at 
all.' 

'  I  shall  wait  for  her,'  said  Norman.  '  Go  on,  Flora,  we  shall 
catch  you  up  in  no  time; '  and,  as  Flora  went,  he  continued,  '  Never 
mind  your  aims  and  fames  and  trumpery  English  rhymes.  Your 
verses  will  be  much  the  best,  Ethel;  I  only  went  on  a  little  about 
Jlount  Vesuvius  and  the  landscape,  as  Alan  described  it  the  other 
day,  and  Decius  taking  a  last  look,  knowing  he  was  to  die.  I  made 
him  beg  his  horse's  pardon,  and  say  how  they  will  both  be  remem- 
bered, and  their  self-devotion  would  inspire  liomans  to  all  posterity, 
and  shout  with  a  noble  voice  !  '  said  Norman,  repeating  some  of  his 
lines,  correcting  them  as  he  proceeded. 

'■  Oh  !  yes  ;  but  oh  !  dear,  I've  done.  Come  along,'  said  Ethel, 
crumpling  her  work  into  a  bundle,  and  snatching  up  her  gloves — 
then,  as  they  ran  down  stairs,  and  emerged  into  the  street,  '  it  is  a 
famous  subject.' 

'  Yes,  you  have  made  a  capital  beginning.  If  you  won't  break 
down  somewhere,  as  you  always  do,  with  some  frightful  false 
quantity,  that  you  would  get  an  imposition  for,  if  you  were  a  boy. 
I  wish  you  were.  I  should  like  to  see  old  Hoxton's  face  if  you 
were  to  show  him  up  some  of  these  verses.' 


24  'lllf    DAISY    ClIAEN. 

*  I'll  toll  }0U  what,  Norman,  if  I  was  you,  I  would  not  make 
Dccius  lluttcr  himself  with  the  fame  he  was  to  get— it  is  too  like 
the  stuff  every  one  talks  in  stupid  hooks.  I  want  him  to  say — 
Rome— my  country — the  eagles — must  win,  if  they  do — never  mind 
what  becomes  of  me.' 

'  But  why  should  he  not  like  to  get  the  credit  of  it,  as  he  did  . 
Fame  and  glory — they  are  the  spirit  of  life,  the  reward  of  such  a 
death.' 

'  0  no,  no,'  said  Ethel.  '  Fame  is  coarse  and  vulgar — blinder 
than  ever  they  draw  Love  or  Fortune — she  is  only  a  personified 
newspaper,  trumpeting  out  all  that  is  extraordinary,  without  mind- 
ing whether  it  is  good  or  bad.     She  misses  the  delicate  and  lovely 

I  wished  they  would  give  us  a  theme  to  write  about  her.     I 

fihould  like  to  abuse  her  well.' 

'  It  would  make  a  very  good  theme,  in  a  new  line,'  said  Nor- 
man; 'but  I  don't  give  into  it,  altogether.  It  is  the  hope  and  the 
thought  of  fame,  that  has  made  men  great,  from  first  to  last.  It  ia 
in  every  one  that  is  not  good  for  nothing,  and  always  will  be ! 
The  moving  spirit  of  man's  greatness  ! ' 

'I'm  not  sure,'  said  Ethel;  'I  think  looking  for  fame  is  like 
wanting  a  reward  at  once.  I  had  rather  people  forgot  themselves. 
Do  you  think  Arnold  von  Winkolricd  thought  about  fame,  when  he 
threw  himself  on  the  spears  ?  ' 

'  He  got  it,'  said  Norman. 

*Yes;  he  got  it  for  the  good  of  other  people,  not  to  please  him- 
self.    Fame  does  those  that  admire  it  good,  not  those  that  win  it.' 

'  But! '  said  Norman,  and  both  were  silent  for  some  short  inter- 
val, as  they  left  the  last  buildings  of  the  town,  and  began  to  mount 
a  steep  hill.  Presently  Norman  slackened  his  pace,  and  driving 
his  stick  vehemently  against  a  stone,  exclaimed,  '  It  is  no  use  talk- 
ing, Ethel,  it  is  all  a  fight  and  a  race.  One  is  always  to  try  to  be 
foremo.st.  Tliat's  the  spirit  of  the  thing — that's  what  the  great,  from 
first  to  last,  have  struggled,  and  fought,  and  lived,  and  died  for.' 

'  I  know  it  is  a  battle,  I  know  it  is  a  race.  The  Bible  says  so,' 
replied  Ethel;  'but  is  not  there  the  difference,  that  here  all  may 
^vin — not  only  one  ?  One  may  do  one's  best,  not  care  whether  one 
is  first  or  last.     That's  what  our  reading  to-day  said.' 

'  That  was  against  trumpery  vanity — false  elevation — not  what 
one  has  earned  for  oneself,  but  getting  into  other  people's  places 
that  one  never  deserved.     That  every  one  despises ! ' 

'  Of  course !  That  they  do.  I  say,  Norman,  didn't  you  mean 
Harvey  Anderson  ? ' 

Instoad  of  answering,  Norman  exclaimed,  'It  is  pretension  that 
\A  hateful — true  exeelliiig  is  what  one's  life  is  for.  No,  no,  I'll 
never  be  beat,  Ethel — I  never  have  been  beat  by  any  one,  except 
by  you,  wlien  you  take  pains,'  he  added,  looking  exultingly  at  hia 
Bister,  '  and  I  never  will  be.' 


THE    DAISY   CHAIN.  25 

'ONoiman!' 

'  I  mean,  of  course,  "wliile  I  hare  senses.  I  ^vould  not  be  like 
Richard  for  all  the  world.' 

'  0  no,  no,  poor  Richard  ! ' 

'  He  is  an  excellent  fellow  in  everything  else,'  said  Norman ;  '  I 
could  sometimes  wish  I  was  more  like  him — but  how  he  can  be  so 
amazingly  slow,  I  can't  imagine.  That  examination  paper  he  broke 
down  in — I  could  have  done  it  as  easily  as  possible.' 

'  I  did  it  all  but  one  question,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  so  did  he,  you 
know,  and  we  can't  tell  whether  we  should  have  it  done  well 
enough.' 

'  I  know  I  must  do  something  respectable  when  first  I  go  to 
Oxford,  if  I  don't  wish  to  be  known  as  the  man  whose  brother  was 
plucked,'  said  Norman. 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel;  '  if  papa  will  but  let  you  try  for  the  Eandall 
scholarship  next  year,  but  he  says  it  is  not  good  to  go  to  Oxford  so 
young.' 

'  And  I  believe  I  had  better  not  be  there  with  Richard,'  added 
Norman.  '  I  don't  like  coming  into  contrast  with  him,  and  I  don't 
think  he  can  like  it,  poor  fellow,  and  it  isn't  his  fault.  I  had  rather 
stay  another  year  here,  get  one  of  the  open  scholarships,  and  leave 
the  Stoneborough  ones  for  those  who  can  do  no  better.' 

In  justice  to  Norman,  we  must  observe  that  this  was  by  no 
means  said  as  a  boast.  He  would  scarcely  have  thus  spoken  to  any 
one  but  Etheldred,  to  whom,  as  well  as  to  himself,  it  seemed  mere 
matter-of-fact.  The  others  had  in  the  mean  time  halted  at  the  top 
of  the  hill,  and  were  looking  back  at  the  town — the  great  old  Min- 
ster, raising  its  twin  towers  and  long  roof,  close  to  the  river,  where 
rich  green  meadows  spread  over  the  valley,  and  the  town  rising 
irregularly  on  the  slope  above,  plentifully  interspersed  with  trees 
and  gardens,  and  one  green  space  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  speckled 
over  with  a  flock  of  little  black  dots  in  rapid  motion. 

*  Here  you  are !  '  exclaimed  Flora.  '  I  told  them  it  was  of  no 
use  to  wait  when  you  and  Norman  had  begun  a  dissertation.' 

'  Now,  Mr.  Ernescliflfe,  I  should  like  you  to  say,'  cried  Ethel, 
'  which  do  you  think  is  the  best,  the  name  of  it,  or  the  thing  ? ' 
Her  eloquence  always  broke  down  with  any  auditor  but  her  brother 
or,  perhaps,  Margaret. 

'  Ethel ! '  said  Norman,  '  how  is  any  one  to  understand  you  ? 
The  argument  is  this :  Ethel  wants  people  to  do  great  deeds,  and  be 
utterly  careless  of  the  fame  of  them ;  I  say,  that  love  of  glory  is  a 
mighty  spring.' 

'  A  mighty  one,'  said  Alan ;  '  but  I  think,  as  far  as  I  under- 
stand the  question,  that  Ethel  has  the  best  of  it,' 

'  I  don't  mean  that  people  should  not  serve  the  cause  first  of 
all,'  said  Norman,  'but  let  them  have  their  Tight  place  and  duo 
honour,' 


26  Tin:  daisy  chain. 

'  They  bad  better  make  up  tbeir  minds  to  do  witbout  it,'  said 
Alan      '  llfmember 

"  The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest  men." 

Tbcn  it  is  a  great  sbame,'  said  Norman. 

*  But  do  3'ou  tbiuk  it  rigbt,'  said  Etbel,  '  to  care  for  distinction  r 
It  is  a  great  tiling  to  earn  it,  but  I  don't  tbink  one  sbould  care  for 
tbc  outer  glory.' 

'  I  bcilicvc  it  is  a  great  temptation,'  said  Alan.  '  Tbe  being  over 
elated  or  over  depressed  by  success  or  failure  in  tbe  eyes  of  tbe 
world,  iudei)endeutly  of  tbe  exertion  we  bave  used — ' 

*  You  call  it  a  temptation  ? '  said  Etbel 

*  Decidedly  so.' 

'  But  one  can't  live  or  get  on  witbout  it,'  said  Norman. 

Tliere  tbcy  were  cut  sbort.  Tbere  was  a  plantation  to  bo 
crossed,  witb  a  gate  tbat  would  not  open,  and  tbat  seemed  an  effect- 
ual barrier  against  botb  Miss  AVinter  and  tbe  donkc}',  until  by 
persuasive  eloquence  and  great  gallantry,  Mr.  Ernescliffe  per- 
formed tbe  wonderful  feat  of  getting  tbe  former  over  tbe  tall  fence 
wbile  Norman  conducted  tbe  doidiey  a  long  way  round,  undertak- 
ing to  meet  tliem  at  tbe  otber  side  of  tbc  plantation. 

Tbe  talk  became  desultory,  as  tbcy  proceeded  for  at  least  a 
mile  along  a  cart-track,  tbrougb  soft  tufted  grass  and  bcatb,  and 
young  fir  trees.  It  ended  in  a  broad  open  moor^  stony  and  full  of 
damp  boggy  bollows,  forlorn  and  desolate  under  tbe  autumn  sky. 
Uerc  tbey  met  Norman  again,  and  walked  on  along  a  very  rougb 
and  dirty  road,  tbe  ground  growing  more  decidedly  into  bills  and 
valleys  as  tbcy  advanced,  till  tbey  found  tbemselves  before  a  small, 
but  very  steep  billock,  one  side  of  wbicb  was  cut  away  into  a  slate 
(juarry.  Hound  tbis  stood  a  colony  of  rougbly-built  buts,  of  mud, 
turf,  or  large  blocks  of  tbe  slate.  Many  workmen  were  engaged 
in  si)litting  up  tbe  slates,  or  loading  waggons  witb  tbem,  rude,  wild- 
looking  men,  at  tbe  sigbt  of  wbom  tbe  ladies  sbrauk  up  to  tbeir 
protectors,  but  Avbo  seemed  too  busy  even  to  spare  time  for  staring 
at  tbem. 

Tbey  were  directed  to  Jobn  Taylor's  bouse,  a  low  mud  cottage, 
very  wretebed  looking,  and  apparently  so  smoky,  tbat  Mr.  Ernes- 
cliffe and  Nurman  were  glad  to  remain  outside  and  survey  tbo 
(quarry,  while  tbe  ladies  entered. 

Inside  tbey  found  more  cleanliness  and  neatness  tban  tbey  bad 
expected,  but  there  was  a  sad  appearance  of  poverty,  insufficient 
furniture,  and  the  cups  and  broken  tea-pot  on  tbe  table,  holding 
nothing  but  toast  and  water,  as  a  substitute  for  tbeir  proper  con- 
tents. Tbe  poor  woman  was  sitting  by  tbe  fire  witb  one  twin  on 
ber  lap,  and  tbe  other  on  a  chair  by  her  side,  and  a  larger  child 
■was  in  the  corner  by  tbe  fire,  looking  heavy  and  ill,  while  others  of 
different  ages  lounged  about  listlessly.     She  was  not  untidy,  but 


THE   DAISY   ClIAm.  27 

very  pale,  and  slie  spoke  in  a  meek,  subdued  way,  as  it  tne  ills  of 
life  were  so  heavy  on  her  that  she  had  no  spirit  even  to  complain. 
She  thanked  them  for  their  gifts  but  languidly,  and  did  not  visibly 
brighten  when  told  that  her  husband  was  better. 

Flora  asksd  when  the  babes  would  be  christened. 

'  I  can't  hardly  tell.  Miss — 'tis  so  far  to  go.' 

'  I  suppose  none  of  the  children  can  go  to  school.  I  don't 
know  their  faces  there,'  said  Flora,  looking  at  a  nice,  tall,  smooth 
liaired  girl,  of  thirteen  or  fourteen. 

'No,  Miss — 'tis  so  far.  I  am  sorry  they  should  not,  for  they 
always  was  used  to  it  where  we  lived  before,  and  my  oldest  girl, 
she  can  work  very  nicely.  I  wish  I  could  get  a  little  place  for 
her.' 

'  You  would  hardly  know  what  to  do  without  her,'  said  Miss 
Winter. 

'  No,  ma'am ;  but  she  wants  better  food  than  I  can  give  her, 
and  it  is  a  bad  wild  place  for  a  girl  to  grow  up.  It  is  not  like 
wliat  I  was  used  to,  ma'am;  I  was  always  used  to  keep  to  my 
school  and  to  my  Church — but  it  is  a  bad  place  to  live  in  here.' 

No  one  could  deny  it,  and  the  party  left  the  cottage  gravely. 
Alan  and  Norman  joined  them,  having  heard  a  grievous  history  of 
the  lawlessness  of  the  people,  from  a  foreman  with  whom  they  had 
met.  There  seemed  to  be  no  visible  means  of  improvement.  The 
parish  Church  was  Stoneborough,  and  there  the  living  was  very 
poor,  the  tithes  having  been  appropriated  to  the  old  Monastery, 
and  since  its  dissolution  having  fallen  into  possession  of  a  Body 
that  never  did  anything  for  the  town.  The  incumbent,  Mr.  Eams- 
den,  had  small  means,  and  was  not  a  high  stamp  of  Clergyman, 
seldom  exerting  himself,  and  leaving  most  of  his  parish  work  to 
the  two  undermasters  of  the  school,  Mr.  Wilmot  and  Mr.  Harri- 
son, who  did  all  they  had  time  and  strength  for,  and  more  too,  with- 
in the  town  itself.     There  was  no  hope  for  Cocksmoor ! 

'  There  would  be  a  worthy  ambition ! '  said  Etheldred,  as  they 
turned  their  steps  homeward.  '  Let  us  propose  that  aim  to  our- 
selves, to  build  a  Church  on  Cocksmoor  ! ' 

'  How  many  years  do  you  give  us  to  do  it  in  ?  '  said  Norman. 

'  Few  or  many,  I  don't  care.  I'll  never  leave  off  thinking  about 
It  till  it  is  done.' 

•  It  need  not  be  long,'  said  Flora,  '  if  one  could  get  up  a  sub- 
scription.' 

'  A  penny  subscription  ?  '  said  Norman.  '  I'd  rather  have  it 
tny  own  doing.' 

'  You  agree  then,'  said  Ethel,  '  do  you,  Mr.  Ernescliffe  ? ' 

'I  may  safely  do  so,'  he  answered,  smiling. 

Miss  Winter  looked  at  Etheldred  reprovingly,  and  she  shrank 
into  herself,  drew  apart,  and  indulged  in  a  reverie.  She  had  heard 
m  books,  of  girls  writing  poetry,  romance,  history — ^gainin^  fifeiea 


28  THE   DAISY    CirAEf. 

ami  hundreds.  Could  not  some  of  the  myriads  of  fancies  floating 
iu  her  mind  thus  be  made  available?  She  would  compose,  publish, 
i'.iirn  money — some  day  call  paj)a,  show  him  her  hoard,  beg  him  to 
take  it,  and,  never  owning  whence  it  came,  raise  tlie  buildiuc. 
Spire  and  chancel — pinnacle  and  buttress  rose  before  her  eyes — • 
and  she  and  Norman  were  standing  in  the  porch,  with  an  orderly, 
religious  population,  blessing  the  unknown  benefactor,  who  had 
caused  the  news  of  salvation  to  be  heard  among  them. 

They  were  almost  at  home,  when  the  sight  of  a  crowd  iu  ',ho 
main  street  checked  them.  Norman  and  Mr.  Ernescliffo  went  for- 
ward to  discover  the  cause,  and  spoke  to  some  one  on  the  outskirts — 
then  Mr.  Ernesclifle  hurried  back  to  the  ladies.  '  There's  been  an 
accident,'  he  said,  hastily — 'you  had  better  go  down  the  lane  an  1 
/M  by  the  gi^rden.' 

lie  was  gone  iu  an  instant,  and  they  obeyed  in  silence.  Whence 
came  Ethel's  certainty  that  the  accident  concerned  themselves  ?  In 
an  agony  of  apprehension,  though  without  one  outward  sign  of  it,  she 
walked  home.  They  were  in  tlie  garden — all  was  apparently  as  usual, 
but  no  one  was  in  sight.  Ethel  had  been  first,  but  she  held  back, 
and  let  Miss  Winter  go  forward  into  the  house.  The  front  door 
was  open — servants  were  standing  about  in  confusion,  and  one  of 
the  maids,  looking  dreadfully  iVigliteued,  gave  a  cry,  '  Oh!  Miss — 
Miss — have  you  heard  V  ' 

'  No — what  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Not  Mrs.  May — '  exclaimed 
Miss  Winter. 

''  Oh !  ma'am !  it  is  all  of  them.  The  carriage  is  overturned, 
and — ' 

'  Who's  hurt  ?     Mamma  !  papa  !     Oh  !  tell  me ! '  cried  Flora. 

'  There's  the  nurse,'  and  Ethel  flew  up  to  her.  '  What  is  it  ?  Oh  I 
nurse  ! ' 

'  My  poor,  poor  children,'  said  old  nurse,  passionately  kissing 
Ethel.  Harry  and  Mary  were  on  the  stairs  b^'hind  her,  clinginfi' 
together. 

A  stranger  looked  into  the  house,  followed  by  Adams,  the  sta- 
bleman.    '  They  are  going  to  bring  Miss  May  in,'  some  one  said. 

Ethel  could  bear  it  no  longer.  As  if  she  could  escape,  she  fled  np- 
Htairs,  into  her  room,  and,  falling  on  her  knees,  hid  her  face  on  her  bed. 

There  were  heavy  steps  in  the  house,  then  a  sound  of  hasty  feet 
coming  up  to  her.  Norman  dashed  into  the  room,  and  threv/  him- 
self on  a  chair.     lie  was  ghastly  pale,  and  shuddered  all  over. 

'  Oh!  Norman,  Norman,  speak.     What  is  it?' 

lie  groaned,  but  could  not  speak  ;  he  rested  his  head  against  her, 
and  gasped.  She  was  terribly  frightened.  '  I'll  call — '  and  she  would 
have  gone,  but  he  held  her.  '  No, — no — they  can't !'  lie  was  pre- 
vented from  saying  more,  by  chattering  teeth  and  deadly  faintness. 
She  tried  to  sujtport  him,  but  could  only  guide  him  as  he  sank,  til] 
he  lay  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  where  she  put  a  piUuw  under  hi« 


THE   DAI3Y   C^AI^".  29 

head,  and  gave  him  some  water.  '  Is  it — oh  !  tell  me.  Are  they 
much  hurt  ?     Oh,  try  to  say.' 

'  They  say  Margaret  is  alive,'  said  Xorman,  in  gasps ;  '  hut — 
And  papa — he  stood  up — sat — walked — was  better — ' 

'  Is  he  hurt — much  hurt  ?  ' 

'  His  arm — '  and  the  tremor  and  fainting  stopped  him  again. 

'Mamma?'  whispered  Ethel;  but  Norman  only  pressed  his 
face  into  the  pillow. 

She  was  so  bewildered  as  to  be  more  alive  to  the  present  dis- 
tress of  his  condition,  than  to  the  vague  horrors  down-stairs.  Some 
minutes  passed  in  silence,  Norman  lying  still,  excepting  a  nervous 
trembling  that  agitated  his  whole  frame.  Again  was  heard  the 
strange  tread,  doors  opening  and  shutting,  and  suppressed  voices, 
and  he  turned  his  face  upwards,  and  listened  with  his  hand  pressed 
to  his  forehead,  as  if  to  keep  himself  still  enough  to  listen. 

'  Oh  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  What  is  it  ?  '  cried  Ethel,  startled  and 
recalled  to  the  sense  of  what  was  passing.  '  Oh  !  Norman  !  '  then 
springing  up,  with  a  sudden  thought, '  Mr.  "Ward  !  Oh  1  is  he  there  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Norman,  in  a  low  hopeless  tone, '  he  was  at  the  place. 
He  said  it — ' 

'  What  ? ' 

Again  Norman's  face  was  out  of  sight. 

'Mamma?'  Ethel's  understanding  perceived,  but  her  mind 
refused  to  grasp  the  extent  of  the  calamity.  There  was  no  answer, 
save  a  convulsive  sqiieezing  of  her  hand. 

Fresh  sounds  below  recalled  her  to  speech  and  action.  '  Where 
is  she  ?     What  are  they  doing  for  her  ?     What — ' 

'  There's  nothing  to  be  done.  She — when  they  lifted  her  up, 
she  was — ' 

'  Dead  ? ' 

'  Dead.' 

The  boy  lay  with  his  face  hidden,  the  girl  sat  by  him  on  the 
floor,  too  much  crushed  for  even  the  sensations  belonging  to  grief, 
neither  moving  nor  looking.  After  an  interval  Norman  spoke  again, 
'  The  carriage  turned  right  over — her  head  struck  on  the  kerb  stone — ' 

'  Did  you  see  ?  '  said  Ethel,  presently. 

'  I  saw  them  lift  her  up.'  He  spoke  at  intervals,  as  he  could 
get  breath,  and  bear  to  utter  the  words.  'And  papa — he  was 
stunned — but  soon  he  sat  up,  said  he  would  go  to  her — he  looked 
at  her — felt  her  pulse,  and  then — sank  down  over  her  1 ' 

'  And  did  you  say,  I  can't  remember — ^was  he  hurt  ?  ' 

The  shuddering  came  again,  '  His  arm — all  twisted — broken,' 
and  his  voice  sank  into  a  faint  whisper;  Ethel  was  obliged  ta 
eprinkle  him  again  with  water.  '  But  he  won't  die  ?  '  said  she,  in 
a  tone  calm  from  its  bewilderment. 

'  Oh  !  no,  no,  no — - 

'  And  Mar^caret  ?" 


30  Tilt:   DAISY   CHAIN. 

'  Tlicy  wore  bringing  her  home.  I'll  go  and  see.  Oh  !  what's 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  '  exclaimed  he,  scolding  himself,  as  sitting  up, 
he  was  forced  to  rest  his  head  on  his  shaking  hand. 

'  You  are  still  faint,  dear  Norman ;  you  had  better  lie  still,  and 
I'll  go  and  see.' 

'  Faint — stuff — how  horridly  stupid  ! '  but  he  was  obliged  to  lay 
his  head  down  again  ;  and  Ethel,  scarcely  less  trembling,  crept 
carefully  towards  the  stairs,  but  a  dread  of  what  she  might  meet 
came  over  her,  and  she  turned  towards  the  nursery. 

The  younger  ones  sat  there  in  a  frightened  huddle.  Mary  was 
on  a  low  chair  by  the  infant's  cot,  Blanche  in  her  lap,  Tom  and 
Harry  leaning  again.'it  her,  and  Aubrey  almost  asleep.  Mary  held 
up  her  finger  as  Ethel  entered,  and  whispered,  '  Hush  !  don't  wake 
baby  for  anything  ! ' 

The  first  true  pang  of  grief  shot  through  Ethel  like  a  dart, 
stabbing  and  taking  away  her  breath.  '  AVhere  are  they  V  '  she  said  ; 
'  how  is  papa  ?  who  is  with  him  ?  ' 

'  3Ir.  AVard  and  Alan  Ernescliffe,'  said  Harry.  '  Nurse  canio 
up  just  now,  and  said  they  were  setting  his  arm.' 

'  Where  is  he  ?  ' 

'  On  the  bed  in  his  dressing-room,'  said  Harry. 

*  lias  he  come  to  himself — is  he  better  ?  ' 

They  did  not  seem  to  know,  and  Ethel  a.sked  where  to  find 
Flora.  '  With  Margaret  she  was  told,  and  she  was  thinking  whe- 
ther sho  could  venture  to  seek  her,  when  she  herself  came  fast  up 
the  staii  ^  Ethel  and  Harry  both  darted  out.  *  Don't  stop  me/ 
said  Flora — 'they  want  some  handkerchiefs.' 

'  What,  is  not  she  in  her  own  room  ? ' 

*  No,'  said  Harry,  '  in  mamma's  ; '  and  then  his  fticc  quivered  all 
over,  and  he  turned  away.  Ethel  ran  aftor  her  sister,  and  pulling 
out  drawers  without  knowing  what  she  sought,  begged  to  hear  how 
papa  and  Margaret  were. 

'  We  cau't  judge  of  ^Margaret — she  has  moved,  and  made  a  little 
moaning — there  arc  no   limbs  broken,  but  we  arc  afraid  fur  her 
head.      (Jh  !  if  papa  could  but — ' 
'  And  papa  V  ' 

'  Mr.  Ward  is  with  him  now — his  arm  is  terribly  hurt.' 
'  But  oil  !  Flora — one  moment — is  he  senj^ible  ?  ' 
'  Hardly ;  he  does  not  take  any  notice — but  don'*'  keep  nie.' 
'  Can  I  do  anything?'  following  her  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
'No;  I  don't  .see  what  you  can  do.     3Iiss  Winter  and  I  are 
with  Margaret,  there's  nothing  to  do  for  her.' 

It  was  a  relief  Etheldrcd  shrank  from  what  she  might  have 
to  behold,  and  Flora  hastened  down,  too  busy  and  too  useful  to 
have  time  to  think.  Harry  had  gone  back  to  his  refuge  in  tlio 
nursery,  and  Ethel  returned  to  Norman.     There  they  remained  for 


TUE   DAISY   CUAIN.  31 

a  long  time,  both  unwilling  to  speak  or  stir,  or  even  to  observe  tc 
each  other  on  the  noises  that  came  into  them,  as  their  door  was 
left  ajar,  though  in  those  sounds  they  were  so  absorbed,  that  they 
did  not  notice  the  cold  of  a  frosty  October  evening,  or  the  darkness 
that  closed  in  on  them. 

They  heard  the  poor  babe  crying,  one  of  the  children  going 
down  to  call  nurse,  and  nurse  coming  up  ;  then  Harry,  at  the  door 
of  the  room  where  the  boys  slept,  calling  Norman  in  a  low  voice. 
Norman,  now  nearly  recovered,  went  and  brought  him  into  his 
sister's  room,  and  his  tidings  '.vere,  that  their  father's  arm  had  been 
broken  in  two  places,  and  the  elbow  frightfully  injured,  having  been 
crushed  and  twisted  by  the  wheel.  He  was  also  a  good  deal  bruised, 
and  though  Mr.  Ward  trusted  there  was  no  positive  harm  to  the 
head,  he  was  in  an  unconscious  state,  from  which  the  severe  pain 
of  the  operation  had  only  roused  him,  so  far  as  to  evince  a  few 
signs  of  suffering.     Margaret  was  still  insensible. 

The  piteous  sound  of  the  baby's  wailing  almost  broke  their 
hearts.  Norman  walked  about  the  room  in  the  dark,  and  said  ho 
should  go  down,  he  could  not  bear  it ;  but  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  go,  and  after  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  to  their  great 
relief,  it  ceased. 

Nest  Mary  opened  the  door,  saying,  '  Norman,  here's  Mr.  Wil- 
mot  come  to  ask  if  he  can  do  anything — Miss  Winter  sent  word 
that  you  had  better  go  to  him.' 

'  How  is  baby  ? '  asked  Harry. 

'Nurse  has  fed  her,  and  is  putting  her  to  bed;  she  is  quiet 
now,'  said  Mary;  '  will  you  go  down,  Norman?' 

'  Where  is  he  ? ' 

'  In  the  drawing-room.' 

Norman  paused  to  ask  what  he  was  to  say.  'Nothing,'  said 
Mary,  '  nobody  can  do  anything.  Make  haste.  Don't  you  want  a 
candle  ? 

'  No,  thank  you,  I  had  rather  be  in  the  dark.  Come  up  as  soon 
as  you  have  seen  him,'  said  Etheldred. 

Norman  went  slowly  down,  with  failing  knees,  hardly  able  to 
conquer  the  shudder  that  came  over  him,  as  he  passed  those  rooms. 
There  were  voices  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he  found  a  sort  of 
council  there,  Alan  Ernescliffe,  the  surgeon,  and  Mr.  Wilmot.  They 
turned  as  he  came  in,  and  Mr.  Wilmot  held  out  his  hand  witb  a 
look  of  affection  and  kindness  that  went  to  his  heart,  making  room 
for  h'm  on  the  sofa,  while  going  on  with  what  he  was  saying.  '  Then 
you  think  it  would  be  better  for  me  not  to  sit  up  with  him.' 

'  I  should  decidedly  say  so,'  replied  Mr.  Ward.  '  He  has  recog- 
nised Mr.  Ernescliffe,  and  any  change  might  excite  him,  and  lead 
him  to  ask  questions.  The  moment  of  his  full  consciousness  is 
especially  to  be  dreaded,' 

'  But  you  do  not  call  him  insensible  ?  ' 


32  Till:;    DAISY    CHAIN, 

*  No,  but  he  sceras  stunned — stupified  by  the  shock,  and  by  pain 
He  spoke  to  Miss  Flora  when  she  brought  him  some  tea.' 

'  And  admirably  .sLe  managed,'  said  Alan  Erucscliffe.  '  I  was 
much  afraid  of  some  answer  that  would  rouse  him,  but  she  kept 
her  self-possession  beautifully,  and  seemed  to  compose  him  in  a 
monieiit.' 

'  iSlie  is  valuable  indeed — so  much  judgment  and  activity,'  said 
Mr.  Ward.  '  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done  without  her. 
But  we  ought  to  have  Mr.  llichard — has  no  one  sent  to  him  ? ' 

Alan  Erucsclifle  and  Norman  looked  at  each  other. 

'  Is  he  at  Oxford,  or  at  his  tutor's?  '  asked  Mr.  AV'ilmot. 

'  At  Oxford  ;  he  was  to  be  there  to-day,  was  he  not,  Norman  ?  ' 

'  What  o'clock  is  it  ?  Is  the  post  gone — seven — no  ;  it  is  all 
safe,'  said  !Mr.  Ward. 

Poor  Norman  1  he  knew  he  was  the  one  who  cught  to  write,  but 
his  icy  trembling  hand  seemed  to  shake  more  helplessly  than  ever, 
and  a  piteous  glance  fell  upon  Mr.  Wilmot. 

'  The  best  plan  would  be,'  said  oMr.  Wilmot,  '  for  me  to  go  to 
him  at  once,  and  bring  him  home.  If  I  go  by  the  mail-train,  I  shall 
get  to  him  sooner  than  a  letter  could.' 

'  And  it  will  be  better  for  him,'  said  ^Ir.  Ward.  '  He  will  feel 
it  dreadfull}',  poor  boy.  But  we  sliall  all  do  better  when  we  have 
liim.     You  can  get  back  to-morrow  evening.' 

'  Sunday,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  '  I  believe  there  is  a  train  at  four.' 

'  Oh  !  thank  you,  sir,'  said  Norman. 

'Since  that  is  settled,  perhaps  I  had  better  go  up  to  the  Doctor,' 
said  Alan ;  '  I  don't  like  leaving  Flora  alone  with  him,'  and  he  was 
gone, 

'  How  fortunate  that  that  youth  is  here,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot — '  he 
seems  to  be  quite  taking  llichard's  place.' 

'  And  to  feel  it  as  much,'  said  Mr.  Ward.  '  He  has  been  inval- 
uable with  his  sailor's  resources  and  handiness.' 

'  Well,  what  shall  I  tell  poor  llichard  ? '  asked  Mr.  Wilmot. 

'  Tell  him  there  is  no  reason  his  father  should  not  do  very  well, 
if  we  can  keep  liim  from  agitation — but  there's  the  point.  He  is 
of  so  excitable  a  constitution,  that  his  faculties  being  so  far  con- 
fused, is  the  best  thing,  perhaps,  that  could  be.  Mr.  Ernescliiro 
manages  him  very  well — used  to  illness  on  that  African  coast,  and 
the  Doctor  is  very  fond  of  him.  As  to  Miss  May,  one  can't  tell 
what  to  say  about  her  yet — there's  no  fracture,  at  least — it  must 
bo  a  work  of  time  to  judge.' 

Flora  at  that  moment  half-opened  the  door,  and  called  Mr. 
Ward,  stopping  for  a  moment  to  say  it  was  for  notliingof  any  conse- 
quence. Mr.  Wilmot  and  Norman  were  left  together.  Norman 
put  his  hands  over  his  face  and  groaned — his  master  looked  at  him 
with  kind  anxiety,  but  did  not  feci  as  if  it  were  yet  time  to  speak 
i»f  consulatiou. 


THE   DAISY   CirATX.  83" 

*  God  bless  and  support  you,  and  turn  this  to  your  good,  mj 
dear  boy,'  said  be  affectionately,  as  be  pressed  bis  band ,  '  I  brpe 
to  bring  your  brotber  to-morrow.' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  was  all  Norman  could  say ;  and  as  I^Ir.  Wilmot 
went  out  by  the  front  door,  be  slowly  went  up  again,  and  lingering 
on  the  landing-place,  was  met  by  Mr.  Ward,  who  told  bim  to  bis 
relief — for  the  mere  thinking  of  it  renewed  the  faint  sensation— 
that  he  bad  better  not  go  to  bis  father's  room. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  return  to  Ethel  and  Harry 
and  tell  them  all ;  with  some  humiliation  at  being  helpless,  where 
Flora  was  doing  so  much,  and  to  leave  their  father  to  be  watched 
by  a  stranger.  If  he  bad  been  wanted,  Norman  might  have  made 
the  effort,  but  being  told  that  be  would  be  worse  than  useless,  there 
was  nothing  for  bim  but  to  give  way. 

They  sat  together  in  Ethel's  room,  till  somewhere  between  eight 
and  nine  o'clock,  when  good  old  nurse,  having  put  her  younger 
ones  to  bed,  came  in  search  of  them.  '  Dear,  dear !  poor  darlings,' 
said  she,  as  she  found  them  sitting  in  the  dark ;  she  felt  their  cold 
hands,  and  made  them  all  come  into  the  nursery,  where  Mary  was 
already,  and,  fondling  them,  one  by  one,  as  they  passively  obeyed 
her,  she  set  them  down  on  their  little  old  stools  round  the  fire,  took 
away  the  high  fender,  and  gave  them  each  a  cup  of  tea.  Harry  and 
Mary  ate  enough  to  satisfy  her,  from  a  weary  craving  feeling,  and 
for  want  of  employment ;  Norman  sat  with  his  elbow  on  bis  knee, 
and  a  very  aching  bead  resting  on  bis  band,  glad  of  drink,  but 
unable  to  eat ;  Ethel  could  be  persuaded  to  do  neither,  till  she 
found  old  nurse  would  let  her  have  no  peace. 

The  nurse  sent  them  all  to  bed,  taking  the  two  girls  to  their 
own  room,  undressing  them,  and  never  leaving  them  until  Mary 
was  in  a  fair  way  of  crying  herself  to  sleep^for  saying  her  prayers 
bad  br:ugbt  the  tears;  while  Ethel  lay  so  wide  awake  that  it  was 
of  no  use  to  wait  for  her,  and  then  she  went  to  the  boys,  tucked 
them  each  it;  as  when  they  were  little  children,  and  saying,  '  Bless 
your  dear  hearts ! '  bestowed  on  each  of  them  a  kiss  which  cam© 
gratefully  to  Norman's  burning  brow,  and  which  even  Harry's  boy- 
ish manliness  could  not  resist. 

Flora  was  in  Margaret's  room,  too  usefal  to  be  spared. 

So  ended  that  dreadful  Saturday. 

Vol   I.— 2* 


34  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 


CUAPTER    IV. 

'Tlioy  may  not  mar  the  deep  reposi 
Of  tliat  Itiimortal  flower: 
Tliough  only  broken  hearts  are  funcd 

To  watch  her  craille  by, 
No  blight  is  on  her  slunibers  found, 
No  touch  of  harmful  eye.' 

Lyea  Innocentium. 

Socn  a  strange  sad  Sunday !  No  going  to  Church,  but  all  the  poor 
children  moving  in  awe  and  oppression  about  the  house,  speaking 
under  their  breath,  as  tliey  gathered  in  the  drawing-room.  Into 
the  study  they  might  not  go,  and  when  Blanche  would  have  asked 
why,  Tom  pressed  her  hand  and  shuddered. 

Etheldred  was  allowed  to  come  and  look  at  Margaret,  and  even 
to  sit  in  the  room  for  a  little  while,  to  take  the  place  of  Miss  Win- 
ter; but  she  was  not  sensible  of  sufficient  usefulness  to  relieve  the 
burden  of  fear  and  bewilderment  in  the  presence  of  that  still,  pale 
form  ;  and,  what  was  almost  worse,  the  siglit  of  the  familiar  objects, 
the  chair  by  the  fire,  the  sofa,  the  books,  the  work-basket,  the  letter- 
case,  the  dressing  things,  all  these  were  too  oppressive.  She  sat 
crouched  up,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  and  the  instant  she 
was  released,  hastened  back  to  Norman.  She  was  to  tell  him  that 
he  mi^ht  go  into  the  room,  but  he  did  not  move,  and  Mary  alone 
went  in  and  out  with  messages. 

Dr.  May  was  not  to  be  visited,  for  he  was  in  the  same  half- 
conscious  state,  apparently  sensible  only  of  bodily  suffering,  thoufWi 
he  answered  when  addressed,  and  no  one  was  trusted  to  "speak  lo 
him  but  Flora  and  Alan  Ernescliffe. 

The  rest  wore  through  tlie  day  as  best  they  might.  Harry 
slept  a  good  deal,  Ethel  read  to  herself,  and  tried  to  get  Norraau 
to  look  at  passages  which  she  liked,  Mary  kept  the  little  ones  from 
being  troublesome,  and  at  last  took  them  to  peep  behiud  the  school- 
room blinds  for  Richard's  coming. 

There  was  a  simultaneous  shout  when,  at  four  o'clock,  tliey 
caught  sight  of  him,  and  though,  at  Ethel's  exclamation  of  wonder, 
JIary  and  Tum  hung  their  heads  at  having  forgotten  themselves, 
the  association  of  gladness  in  seeing  Richard  was  refreshing;  the 
8en.se  of  being  desolate  and  forsaken  was  relieved,  and  they  knew 
that  jiow  they  had  one  to  rely  on  and  to  comfort  them. 

Harry  hastened  to  open  the  front  door,  and  Richard,  with  his 
small  trim  figure,  and  fresh,  fair  young  face,  flushed,  though  not 
otherwise  agitated,  was  among  them,  almost  devoured  by  the  younger 
ones,  and  dealing  out  quiet  caresses  to  them,  as  he  caught  from  the 
words  and  looks  of  the  others,  that  at  least  his  father  and  sister 
were  no  worse.  Mr.  Wilmot  had  come  with  him,  but  ouly  staid  to 
bear  tbe  tidin/is. 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  bO 

'  Can  I  see  papa  ? '  were  Ricliard's  first  audible  words — all  the 
rest  had  been  almost  dumb  show. 

Ethel  thought  not,  but  took  him  to  Margaret's  room,  where  ho 
stood  for  many  minutes  without  speaking ;  then  whispered  to  Flora 
that  he  must  go  to  the  others,  she  should  call  him  if — and  went 
down,  followed  by  Etheh 

Tom  and  Blanche  had  fallen  into  teaziug  tricks,  a  sort  of  melan- 
choly play  to  relieve  the  tedium.  They  grew  cross.  Norman  was 
roused  to  reprove  sharply,  and  Blanche  was  beginning  to  cry.  But 
Richard's  entrance  set  all  at  peace — he  sat  down  among  them,  and, 
with  soft  voice  and  arm  round  Blanche,  as  she  leaned  against  him, 
made  her  good  in  a  moment ;  and  she  listened  while  he  talked 
over  with  Norman  and  Ethel  all  they  could  bear  to  speak  of. 

Late  in  the  day.  Flora  came  into  her  father's  room,  and  stood 
gazing  at  him,  as  he  lay  with  eyes  closed,  breathing  heavily,  and 
his  brows  contracted  by  pain.  She  watched  him  with  piteous  looks, 
as  if  imploring  him  to  return  to  his  children.  Poor  girl,  to-day's 
quiet,  after  the  last  evening's  bustle,  was  hard  to  bear.  She  had 
then  been  distracted  from  thought  by  the  necessity  of  exertion,  but 
it  now  repayed  itself,  and  she  knew  not  how  to  submit  to  do  nothing 
but  wait  and  watch. 

'  No  change  ?  '  enquired  Alan  Ernescliffe ;  looking  kindly  in  her 
face. 

'  No,'  replied  she  in  a  low,  mournful  tone.  '  She  only  once  said 
thank  you.' 

A  voice  which  she  did  not  expect,  asked  inquiringly,  '  Marga- 
ret ?  '  and  her  heart  beat  as  if  it  would  take  away  her  breath,  aa 
she  saw  her  father's  eyes  intently  fixed  on  her.  '  Did  you  speak  of 
her  ?  '  he  repeated. 

'  Yes,  dear  papa,'  said  Flora,  not  losing  presence  of  mind,  though 
in  extreme  fear  of  what  the  next  question  might  be.  '  She  is  quiet 
and  comfortable,  so  don't  be  uneasy,  pray.' 

'  Let  me  hear,'  he  said,  and  his  whole  voice  and  air  showed  him 
to  be  entirely  roused,     '  There  is  injury  ?     AVhat  is  it — ' 

He  continued  his  inquiries  till  Flora  was  obliged  fully  to  explain 
her  sister's  condition,  and  then  he  dismayed  her  by  saying  he  would 
get  up  and  go  to  see  her.  Much  distressed,  she  begged  him  not  to 
think  of  it,  and  appealed  to  Alan,  who  added  his  entreaties  that  he 
would  at  least  wait  for  Mr.  Ward ;  but  the  Doctor  would  not  relin- 
quish his  purpose,  and  sent  her  to  give  notice  that  he  was  coming. 

Mr.  Ernescliffe  followed  her  out  of  the  room,  and  tried  to  con- 
sole her,  as  she  looked  at  him  in  despair. 

*  You  see  he  is  quite  himself,  quite  collected,'  he  said ;  '  you  heard, 
how  clear  and  coherent  his  questions  were.' 

'  Can't  it  be  helped  ?  Do  try  to  stop  him  till  I  can  send  to  Mr 
Ward.' 

'  I  will  try,  but  I  think  he  is  in  a  state  to  judge  for  himself.     I 


oO  Tin:   DAISY   CliAIX. 

do,  upon  my  ^vol•d;  and  I  believe  trying  to  prevent  Liiii  would  be 
more  likely  to  do  him  Jiarm  tlian  letting  him  satisfy  himself.  I  real- 
ly think  you  need  not  be  alarmed.' 

'  But  you  know,'  said  Flora,  coming  nearer,  and  almost  gasping  as 
ehe  whispered  and  signed  toward  the  door,  '  she  is  there — it  is  mam- 
ma's room,  tliat  will  tell  all.' 

'  I  believe  he  knows,'  said  Alan.  '  It  was  that  which  made  him 
faint  after  the  accident,  for  he  had  his  perceptions  fully  at  first.  1  liave 
suspected  all  day  that  he  was  more  himself  than  he  seemed,  but  I  think 
he  could  not  bear  to  awaken  his  mind  to  understand  it,  and  that  he  wa.'^ 
afraid  to  hear  about  her — your  sister,  so  that  our  mention  of  her  was  a 
great  relief,  and  did  him  good.  I  am  convinced  he  knows  the  rest. 
Only  go  on,  be  calm,  as  you  have  been,  and  we  shall  do  A'cry  well.' 

Flora  went  to  prepare.  Ethel  eagerly  undertook  to  send  to  IMr, 
Ward,  and  hastened  from  the  room,  as  if  in  a  sort  of  terror,  shrink- 
ing perhaps  from  what  might  lead  to  an  outburst  of  grief.  She 
longed  to  have  seen  her  father,  but  was  frightened  at  the  chance  of 
meeting  him.  AVhen  she  had  sent  her  message,  and  tokl  her  brothers 
what  was  passing,  she  went  and  lingered  on  the  stairs  and  iu  the  pas- 
sage for  tidings.  After  what  seemed  a  long  time.  Flora  came  out,  and 
hastened  to  the  nursery,  giving  her  intelligence  on  the  way. 

*  Better  than  could  be  hoped,  he  walked  alone  into  the  room,  and 
was  quite  calm  and  composed.  Oh  !  if  this  will  not  hurt  him,  if  the 
seeing  baby  Avas  but  over  !  ' 

'  Does  he  Mant  her ?  ' 

'  Yes,  he  would  have  come  up  here  himself,  but  I  would  not  let 
him — Nurse,  do  you  hear  V     Papa  wants  baby,  let  mc  have  her.' 

'  Bless  me.  Miss  Flora,  you  can't  hold  her  while  you  arc  all  of  a 
tremble  !     And  he  has  been  to  Miss  Margaret  V  ' 

'  Yes,  nurse,  and  he  was  only  rather  stiff  and  lame.' 

'  Did  Margaret  seem  to  know  him  V  '  said  Ethel. 

'  She  just  answered  in  that  dreamy  way  when  he  spoke  to  her. 
He  says  he  thinks  it  is  as  Mr.  Ward  believes,  and  that  she  will  soon 
come  to  herself.     He  is  quite  able  to  consider — ' 

*  And  he  knows  all  ?  ' 

*  I  am  sure  he  does.  He  desired  to  see  baby,  and  he  wants  you, 
nurse.  Only  mind  you  conunand  yourself — don't  say  a  word  you  can 
help — do  nothing  to  agitate  him.' 

Nur.se  promised,  but  the  tears  came  so  fast,  and  sobs  with  them,  aa 
he  approached  her  nuister's  room,  that  Flora  saw  no  compo.sure  could 
Ijc  expected  from  her ;  and  taking  the  infant  from  her,  carried  it  in, 
leaving  the  door  open  for  her  to  follow  when  wanted.  Ethel  stood 
by  listening.  There  was  silence  at  first,  then  .some  sounds  from  the 
baby,  and  her  father's  voice  soothing  it,  in  his  wonted  caressing 
phrases  and  tones,  so  familiar  that  they  seemed  to  break  the  spell. 
drive  away  her  vague  terrors,  and  restore  her  father,  ller  heart 
l-oundcd,  and    a   sudden    in)pulse  carried   her   to  the  bedside,   al 


THE    DAI&T    CHAIN.  37 

once  fcrgcttiag  all  dread  of  seeing  him,  and  cbancc  of  doing  liim 
liana.  He  lay,  holding  the  babe  close  to  him,  and  his  face  was  not 
altered,  so  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  sight  to  impress  her  with  the 
need  of  caution,  and,  to  the  consternation  of  the  anxious  Flora,  she 
exclaimed,  abruptly  and  vehemently,  '  Papa  !  should  not  she  bo 
Christened  ? ' 

Dr.  May  looked  uj)  at  Ethel,  then  at  the  infant ;  '  Yes,'  he  said, '  at 
once.'  Then  added  feebly  and  languidly,  '  Some  one  must  see  to  it.' 
.  There  was  a  pause,  while  Flora  looked  reproachfully  at  her  sister, 
and  Ethel  became  conscious  of  her  imprudence,  but  in  a  few  momenta 
Dr.  May  spoke  again,  first  to  the  baby,  and  then  asking, '  Is  Richard 
here  ?  ' 

*,Yes,  papa.' 

'  Send  him  up  presentlj^     Where's  nurse  ?  * 

Ethel  retreated,  much  alarmed  at  her  rash  measu:  e,  and  when  she 
related  it,  she  saw  that  Richard  and  Mr.  Ernescliil'c  both  thought  it 
had  been  a  great  hazard. 

'  Papa  wants  you,'  was  a  welcome  sound  to  the  cars  of  Richard, 
and  brought  a  pink  glow  into  his  face.  He  was  never  one  who  readily 
showed  his  feelings,  and  there  was  no  danger  of  his  failing  in  self- 
command,  though  grievously  downcast,  not  only  at  the  loss  of  the 
tender  mother,  who  had  always  stood  between  him  and  his  father's  im- 
patience, but  by  the  dread  that  he  was  too  dull  and  insignificant  to 
aflord  any  help  or  comfort  in  his  father's  dire  affliction. 

Yet  there  was  something  in  the  gentle  sad  look  that  met  him,  and 
in  the  low  tone  of  the  '  How  d'ye  do,  Ritchie  ? '  that  drove  off  all 
thought  of  not  being  loved ;  and  when  Dr.  3Iay  further  added, '  You'll 
see  about  it  all — I  am  glad  you  are  come,'  he  knew  he  was  of  use, 
and  was  encouraged  and  cheered.  That  his  father  had  full  confi- 
dence and  reliance  in  him,  and  that  his  presence  was  a  satisfaction  and 
relief,  he  could  no  longer  doubt ;  and  this  was  a  drop  of  balm  beyond 
all  his  hopes ;  for  loving  and  admiring  his  father  intensely,  and  with 
depressed  spirits  and  a  low  estimate  of  himself,  he  had  begun  to  fancy 
himself  incapable  of  being  anything  but  a  vexation  and  burthen. 

He  sat  with  his  father  nearly  all  the  evening,  and  w^as  to  remain 
with  him  at  night.  The  rest  were  comforted  by  the  assurance  that 
Dr.  May  was  still  calm,  and  did  not  seem  to  have  been  injured  by 
what  had  passed.  Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  the  violence  and  sudden- 
ness of  the  shock,  together  with  his  state  of  suffering,  had  deadened 
his  sensations ;  for  there  was  far  less  agitation  about  him  than  could 
have  been  thought  possible  in  a  man  of  such  strong,  warm  affections 
and  sensitive  temperament. 

Ethel  and  Norman  went  up  arm-in-arm  at  bed-time. 

'  I  am  going  to  ask  if  I  may  wish  papa  good  night,'  said  Ethel 
Shall  I  say  anything  about  your  coming  ? ' 

Norman  hesitated,  but  his  cheeks  blanched  ;  he  shuddered,  shook 


38  TllK    DAISY    CIIAIX. 

Lis  head  ^Yitllout  speaking,  rau  up  after  Ilarrj',  aud  waved  her  bacl{ 
wLen  she  would  have  followed. 

llicliard  told  her  that  she  might  eonie  iu,  and,  as  she  slowly  ad- 
vanced, she  thought  she  had  never  seen  anything  so  iucftably  mourn- 
ful as  the  affeetionate  look  on  her  father's  face.  She  held  his  hand 
and  ventured — for  it  was  with  difficulty  she  spoke — to  hope  he  wa.s 
not  in  pain. 

'  Better  than  it  was,  thank  you,  my  dear,'  he  said,  in  a  soft  ■weak 
tone ;  then,  as  she  bent  dowu  to  kiss  his  brow,  '  You  must  take  care 
of  the  little  ones.' 

*  Yes,  papa,'  she  could  hardly  answer,  and  a  large  drop  gathered 
slowly  in  each  eye,  long  in  coming,  as  if  the  heart  ached  too  much 
for  them  to  flow  freely. 

'  Arc  they  all  well  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  papa.' 

'  Aud  good  ?.'  He  held  her  hand,  as  if  lengthening  the  interview. 

'  Yes,  very  good  all  day.' 

A  long  deep  sigh.     Ethel's  two  tears  stood  on  her  cheeks. 

'  My  love  to  them  all.  I  hope  I  shall  see  them  to-morrow.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear,  good  night.' 

Ethel  went  up-stairs,  saddened  and  yet  soothed.  The  calm  silent 
sorrow,  too  deep  for  outward  tokens,  was  so  unlike  her  father's  usu- 
ally demonstrative  habits,  as  to  impress  her  all  the  more,  yet  those 
two  tears  were  followed  by  no  more ;  there  was  much  strangeness  and 
confusion  in  her  mind  in  the  newness  of  grief. 

She  found  poor  Flora,  spent  with  exertion  under  the  reaction  of 
all  she  had  undergone,  lying  on  her  bed,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break,  calling  in  gasps  of  irrepressible  agony  on  mamma ! 
mamma  !  yet  with  her  face  pressed  down  on  the  pillow  that  she  might 
not  be  heard.  Ethel,  tcrrilied  and  distressed,  timidly  implored  her 
to  be  comforted,  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  not  even  heard ;  she 
would  have  fetched  some  one,  but  whom  ?  Alas  !  alas  !  it  brought 
back  the  sense  that  no  mother  would  ever  soothe  them — JIargaret, 
papa,  both  so  ill,  nurse  engaged  with  Mar^^ret !  Ethel  stood  help- 
less and  despairing,  aud  Flora  sobbed  on,  so  that  Mary  awakened  to 
burst  out  in  a  loud  frightened  fit  of  crying ;  but  in  a  few  moments 
a  step  was  heard  at  the  door,  a  knock,  and  llichard  asked,  '  Is  any- 
thing the  mutter? ' 

lie  was  in  the  room  in  a  moment,  caressing  and  saying  affectionate 
things  with  gentleness  and  fondling  care,  like  his  mother,  and  which 
recalled  the  days  when  he  had  been  proud  to  be  left  for  a  little  while 
the  small  nurse  and  guardian  of  the  lesser  ones.  Mary  was  hushed 
in  a  moment,  and  Flora's  exhausted  weeping  was  gradually  soothed, 
when  she  was  able  to  recollect  that  she  was  keeping  him  from  her 
father ;  with  kind  good  nights,  he  left  Ethel  to  read  to  her  till  she 
could  sleep.  Long  did  Ethel  read,  after  both  her  sisters  were  slum- 
boring  soundly  ;  she  wen  t  on  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  grief,  almost  devoid 


TiiE  DAISY  cnAEsr.  39 

of  pain,  as  if  all  this  was  too  terrible  to  be  true ;  and  sbo  bad  im- 
agined herself  into  a  story,  which  would  give  place  at  dawn  to  her 
ordinary  life. 

At  last  she  went  to  bed,  and  slept  till  wakened  by  the  retvirn  of 
Flora,  who  had  crept  down  in  her  dressing-gown  to  see  how  mattera 
were  going.  Margaret  was  in  the  same  state,  papa  was  asleep,  after 
a  restless  distressing  night,  with  much  pain  and  some  fever;  and 
whenever  Richard  had  begun  to  hope  from  his  tranquillity,  that  he 
was  falling  asleep,  he  was  undeceived  by  hearing  an  almost  uncon- 
sciously uttered  sigh  of  *  Maggie,  my  Maggie  ! '  and  then  the  head 
turned  wearily  on  the  pillow,  as  if  worn  out  with  the  misery  from 
which  there  was  no  escape.  Towards  morning,  the  pain  had  lessened, 
and,  as  he  slept,  he  seemed  much  less  feverish  than  they  could  have 
ventured  to  expect. 

Norman  looked  wan  and  wretched,  and  could  taste  no  breakfast , 
indeed  Harry  reported  that  he  had  been  starting  and  talking  in  his 
sleep  half  the  night,  and  had  proceeded  to  groaning  and  crying  out 
till,  when  it  could  be  borne  no  longer,  Harry  waked  him,  and  finished 
his  night's  rest  in  peace. 

The  children  were  kept  in  the  drawing  room  that  morning,  and 
there  were  strange  steps  in  the  house ;  but  only  Richard  and  Mr. 
Ernescliife  knew  the  reason.  Happily  there  had  been  witnesses 
enough  of  the  overturn  to  spare  any  reference  to  Dr.  May — the 
violent  start  of  the  horses  had  been  seen,  and  Adams  and  Mr.  Ernes- 
cliife agreed,  under  their  breath,  that  the  new  black  one  was  not  fit 
to  drive,  while  the  whole  town  was  so  used  to  Dr.  May's  headlong 
driving,  that  every  one  was  recollecting  their  own  predictions  of  ac- 
cidents. There  needed  little  to  account  for  the  disaster — th«  only 
wonder  was,  that  it  had  rot  happened  sooner. 

'  I  say,'  announced  Harry,  soon  after  they  were  released  again, 
'  I've  been  in  to  papa.  His  door  was  open,  and  he  heard  me,  and 
called  me.  He  says  he  should  like  any  of  us  to  come  in  and  see 
him.     Hadn't  you  better  go,  Norman  ?  ' 

Norman  started  up,  and  walked  hastily  out  of  the  room,  but  his 
hand  shook  so,  that  he  could  hardly  open  the  door ;  and  Ethel,  see- 
ing how  it  was  with  him,  followed  him  quickly,  as  he  dashed,  at  full 
speed,  up  the  stairs.  At  the  top,  however,  he  was  forced  to  cling  fo 
the  rail,  gasping  for  breath,  while  the  moisture  started  on  his  forehead. 

'  Dear  Norman,'  she  said,  '  there's  nothing  to  mind.  He  looks 
'ust  as  usual.  You  would  not  know  there  was  anything  the  matter.' 
But  he  rested  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  looked  as  if  he  could  not  stir. 
'  I  see  it  won't  do,'  said  Ethel — '  don't  try — ^you  will  be  better  by- 
and-by,  and  he  has  not  asked  for  you  in  particular.' 

'  I  won't  be  beat  by  such  stuff,'  said  Norman,  stepping  hastily 
forwards,  and  opening  the  door  suddenly.  He  got  through  the  greet- 
ing pretty  well,  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  speak,  he  only  gave  hia 
hand  and  looked  away,  unable  to  bring  himself  to  turn  his  eyes  on  hia 


lO  TIIK    I).M>Y    CHAIN'. 

fiitlic,  and  iifruid  of  letting  his  own  face  be  socn.  Almost  at  the 
same  monieiit,  nurse  came  to  say  something  about  IMargarct.  and  ho 
seized  tlio  opportunity  of  withdrawing  his  hand,  and  hurrying  away, 
in  good  time,  for  he  was  pale  as  death,  and  was  obliged  to  sit  down 
on  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  lean  liis  liead  against  Etheldred. 

*  Wliat  does  make  me  so  ridiculous  ?  '  he  exclaimed  faintly,  but 
very  indignantly. 

The  first  cure  was  the  being  forced  to  clear  out  of  Mr.  Ward's 
way,  which  he  could  not  effect  without  being  seen ;  and  Ethel,  though 
she  knew  that  he  would  be  annoyed,  was  not  sorry  to  be  obliged  to 
remain,  and  tell  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  '  Oh,'  said  Mr. 
Ward,  turning  and  proceeding  to  the  dining-room,  '  I'll  set  that  to 
rights  in  a  minute,  if  you  will  ask  for  a  tumbler  of  hot-water,  Miss 
Ethel.' 

And  armed  with  the  cordial  he  had  prepared,  Ethel  hunted  up  her 
brother,  and  persuaded  him,  after  scolding  her  a  little,  to  swallow  it, 
and  take  a  turn  in  the  garden  ;  after  which  he  made  a  more  successful 
attempt  at  visiting  his  father. 

There  was  another  room  whither  both  Norman  and  Etheldred 
wished  to  go,  though  they  dared  not  hint  at  their  desire.  At  last, 
llichard  came  to  them,  as  they  were  wandering  in  the  garden,  and, 
with  his  usual  stillness  of  manner,  shaded  with  additional  seriousness, 
said,  '  Would  you  like  to  come  into  the  study  ?  ' 

Etheldred  put  one  hand  into  his,  Norman  took  the  other,  and  soon 
they  stood  in  that  calm  presence.  Fair,  cold,  white,  and  intensely 
still — that  faoc  brought  home  to  them  the  full  certainty  that  the  warm 
brightening  look  would  never  beam  on  them,  the  soft  blue  eyes  never 
guide,  chock,  and  watch  them,  the  smile  never  approve  or  welcome 
them.  To  see  her  unconscious  of  their  presence  was  too  strange  and 
sad,  and  all  were  silent,  till,  as  they  left  the  room,  Ethel  looked  out 
at  Blanche  and  Aubrey  in  the  garden.  '  They  will  never  remember 
her  !     Oh  !  why  should  it  be  ?  ' 

Richard  Avould  fain  have  moralized  and  comforted,  but  she  felt  aa 
if  she  knew  it  all  before,  and  heard  with  languid  attention.  She  had 
rather  road  than  talk,  and  he  sat  down  to  write  letters. 

There  were  no  near  relations  to  be  sent  for.  Dr.  May  was  an 
only  son,  and  his  wife's  sister,  Mrs.  Arnott,  was  in  New  Zealand  ;  her 
brotlier  had  long  been  dead,  and  his  widow,  who  lived  in  Edinburgh, 
was  scarcely  known  to  the  May  family.  Of  friends  there  were  many, 
t;ist  bound  by  affection  and  gratitude,  and  notes,  inquiries,  condolen- 
ces, and  offers  of  service  came  in  thickly,  and  gave  much  occupation 
to  Flora,  llichard,  and  AlaJi  Ernescliffe,  in  turn.  No  one  from  with- 
out could  do  anything  for  them — they  liad  all  the  help  they  wanted 
in  Miss  Winter  and  in  Alatjj  who  was  invaluable  in  sharing  with 
llichard  the  care  of  the  Doctor,  as  well  as  in  giving  him  the  benefit 
of  his  few  additional  years'  experience,  and  relieving  him  of  some  of 
bis  tasks.     Ho  was  indeed  like  one  of  themselves,  and  a  most  valu- 


TirE   DAISV:   CHAIN.  41 

able  help  and  comforter.  Mr.  Wilmot  gave  tlicm  all  the  time  ho 
could,  and  on  this  day  saw  the  Doctor,  who  seemed  to  find  some  so- 
lace in  his  visit,  though  saying  very  little. 

On  this  day  the  baby  was  to  be  baptized.  The  usual  Stoneborougli 
fashion  was  to  collect  all  the  Christenings  for  the  month  into  one 
Sunday,  except  those  for  such  persons  as  thought  themselves  too 
refined  to  see  their  children  Christened  before  the  congregation,  and 
who  preferred  an  empty  Church  and  a  week-day.  The  little  one  had 
waited  till  she  was  nearly  six  weeks  old  for  '  a  Christening  Sunday,' 
and  since  that  had  been  missed,  she  could  not  be  kept  unbaptized  for 
another  month ;  so,  late  in  the  day,  she  was  carried  to  Church. 

Kichard  had  extremely  gratified  old  nurse,  by  asking  her  to  re- 
present poor  Margaret,  Mrs.  Hoxton  stood  for  the  other  godmother, 
and  Alan  Ernescliffe  was  desired  to  consider  himself  absolutely  her 
sponsor,  not  merely  a  proxy.  The  younger  children  alone  were  to 
go  with  them :  it  was  too  far  off,  and  the  way  lay  too  much  through 
the  town  for  it  to  be  thought  proper  for  the  others  to  go.  Ethel 
wished  it  very  much,  and  thought  it  nonsense  to  care  whether  people 
looked  at  her ;  and  in  spite  of  Miss  Winter's  seeming  shocked  at  her 
proposing  it,  had  a  great  mind  to  persist.  She  would  even  have 
appealed  to  her  papa,  if  Flora  had  not  stopped  her,  exclaiming, 
'  Really,  Ethel,  I  think  there  never  was  a  person  so  entirely  without 
consideration  as  you  are.' 

Much  abashed,  Ethel  humbly  promised  that  if  she  might  go  into 
papa's  room,  she  would  not  say  one  word  about  the  Christening,  un- 
less he  should  begin,  and,  to  her  great  satisfaction,  he  presently 
asked  her  to  read  the  service  to  him.  Flora  came  to  the  door-way 
of  Margaret's  room,  and  listened ;  when  she  had  finished,  all  were 
silent, 

'  How  shall  we,  how  can  we  virtuously  bring  up  our  motherless 
little  sister  ?  '  was  the  thought  with  each  of  the  girls.  The  answers 
were,  in  one  mind,  '  I  trust  we  shall  do  well  by  her,  dear  little  thing. 
I  see,  on  an  emergency,  that  I  know  how  to  act.  I  never  thought  I 
was  capable  of  being  of  so  much  use,  thanks  to  dear,  dear  mamma's 
training.  I  shall  manage,  I  am  sure,  and  so  they  will  all  depend  on 
me,  and  look  up  to  me.  How  nice  it  was  to  hear  dear  papa  sa.y  what 
he  did  about  the  comfort  of  my  being  able  to  look  after  Margaret.* 

In  the  other,  '  Poor  darling,  it  is  saddest  of  all  for  her,  because 
she  knows  nothing,  and  will  never  remember  her  mamma  !  But  if 
Margaret  is  but  better,  she  will  take  care  of  her,  and  oh  !  how  we 
ought  to  try — and  I,  such  a  naughty  wild  thing — if  I  should  hurt 
the  dear  little  ones  by  carelessness,  or  by  my  bad  example  !  Oh  ! 
what  shall  I  do,  for  want  of  some  one  to  keep  me  in  order  ?  If  I 
should  vex  papa  by  any  of  my  wrong  ways  !  ' 

They  heard  the  return  of  the  others,  and  the  sisters  both  ,<5prang 
ap,  '  May  we  bring  her  to  you  ?  '  said  Flora. 

'  Yes,  do,  my  dears.' 


42  Tin:  DAISY  CHAIN-. 

The  sistci's  nil  came  down  together  with  tlic  little  one,  and  Flora 
put  her  dowu  witliiii  the  arm  her  father  stretched  out  for  her.  IIo 
gazed  into  the  baby  face,  which,  in  its  expressionless  placidity,  almost 
recalled  her  mother's  tranquil  sweetness. 

'  Gertrude  Margaret,'  said  Flora,  and  with  a  look  that  had  more 
of  tenderness  than  grief,  he  murmured,  '  My  Daisy  blossom,  my  little 
Maffgie.' 

'  Might  we  ?  '  said  Ethel,  when  Flora  took  her  again,  '  might  wo 
take  her  to  her  godmother  to  see  if  she  would  notice  her  ? ' 

lie  looked  as  if  he  wished  it ;  but  said,  '  No,  I  think  not,  better 
not  rouse  her,'  and  siglicd  heavily ;  then,  as  they  stood  round  his  bed, 
unwilling  to  go,  he  added,  '  Girls,  we  must  learn  carefulness  and- 
thoughtfuluesd.     We  have  no  one  to  take  thought  for  us  now.' 

Flora  pressed  the  babe  in  her  arms,  Ethel's  two  reluctant  tears 
stood  on  her  cheeks,  Mary  exclaimed,  '  I'll  try  not  to  be  naughty ; ' 
and  Blanche  climbed  up  to  kiss  him,  saying,  '  I  will  be  always  good, 
papa.' 

*  Daisy — papa's  Daisy — your  vows  are  made,'  whispered  Ethel, 
gaining  sole  possession  of  the  babe  for  a  minute.  '  You  have  prom- 
ised to  be  good  and  holy.  We  have  the  keeping  of  you,  mamma's 
precious  flower,  her  pearl  of  truth  !  Oh,  may  God  guard  you  to  be 
an  unstained  jewel,  till  you  come  back  to  her  again — and  a  blooming 
flower,  till  you  are  gathered  into  the  wreath  that  never  fades — my 
own  sweet  poor  little  motherless  Daisy ! ' 


CHAPTER    V. 

'Tliro\igIi  lawless  C!»nip,  throngh  occftn  wild, 

Iler  proplK-t  eye  pursues  lier  child; 
Scnns  mournfully  her  poet's  strain, 

Fears  for  her  mercliant,  loss  alike  and  caln.' 

Ltba  Innooe.ntium. 

Dr.  May  took  the  management  of  himself  into  his  own  hands,  and 
paid  so  little  attention  to  Mr.  Ward's  recommendations,  that  hia 
sons  and  daughters  were  in  continual  dread  of  his  choosing  to  do 
something  that  might  cause  injurious  agitation. 

However,  he  did  not  attem])t  to  go  farther  than  Margaret's  bed 
Bide,  where  he  sat  hour  after  hour,  his  eyes  flxed  upon  her,  as  sho 
continued  in  a  state  bordering  on  insensibility.  He  took  little  notice 
of  anything  else,  and  hardly  spoke.  There  were  heavy  sighs  now 
and  then,  but  Ilichard  and  Flora,  one  or  other  of  whom  was  always 
watching  him,  could  hardly  tell  whether  to  ascribe  them  to  the  op- 
lircssion  of  sorrow,  or  of  sufl'cring.  Their  great  fear  was  of  his  in- 
wistiug  on  seeing  his  wife's  face,  and  it  was  a  great  relief  that  ho 
uever  alluded  to  her,  except  once,  to  desire  Ilichard  to  bring  him  her 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  43 

riug.  Richard  silently  obeyed,  and  without  a  word,  he  placed  it  on 
hi8  little  finger.  Richard  used  to  read  the  Psalms  to  him  in  the 
morning  before  he  was  up,  and  Flora  would  bring  little  Daisy  and 
lay  her  by  his  side. 

To  the  last  moment,  they  dreaded  his  choosing  to  attend  the 
funeral,  and  Flora  had  decided  on  remaining  at  home,  though  trem- 
bling at  the  thought  of  what  there  might  be  to  go  through.  They 
tried  to  let  him  hear  nothing  about  it,  but  he  seemed  to  know  every 
thino- ;  and  when  Flora  came  into  Margaret's  room,  without  her 
bonnet,  he  raised  his  head,  and  said, '  I  thought  you  were  all  going.' 
'  The  others  are — but  may  I  not  stay  with  you  and  her,  papa  ? 
'  I  had  rather  be  alone,  my  dear.  I  will  take  care  of  her.  T 
should  wish  you  all  to  be  there.' 

They  decided  that  his  wishes  ought  to  be  followed,  and  that  the 
patients  must  be  entrusted  to  old  nurse.  Richard  told  Flora,  who 
looked  very  pale,  that  she  would  be  glad  of  it  afterwards,  and  she 
had  his  arm  to  lean  npon. 

The  grave  was  in  the  cloister  attached  to  the  Minster,  a  smooth 
green  square  of  turf,  marked  here  and  there  with  small  flat  lozenges 
of  stone,  bearing  the  date  and  initials  of  those  who  lay  there,  and 
many  of  them  recordicg  former  generations  of  Mays,  to  whom  their 
descent  from  the  head-master  had  given  a  right  of  burial  there. 
Dr.  Iloxton,  Mr.  Wilmot,  and  the  surgeon,  were  tne  only  friends 
whom  Richard  had  asked  to  be  with  them,  but  the  Minster  was 
nearly  full,  for  there  was  a  very  strong  attachment  and  respect  for 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  May  throughout  the  neighbourhood,  and  every  one's 
feelings  were  strongly  excited. 

'  In  the  midst  of  life,  we  are  in  death — '  There  was  a  universal 
sound,  as  of  a  sort  of  sob,  that  Etheldred  never  disconnected  from 
those  words.  Yet  hardly  one  tear  was  shed  by  the  young  things 
who  stood  as  close  as  they  could  round  the  grave.  Harry  and  Mary 
did  indeed  lock  their  hands  together  tightly,  and  the  shoulders  of 
the  former  shook  as  he  stood,  bowing  down  his  head,  but  the  others 
were  still  and  quiet,  in  part  from  awe  and  bewilderment,  but  partly, 
too,  from  a  sense  that  it  was  against  her  whole  nature  that  there 
should  be  clamorous  mourning  for  her.  The  calm  still  day  seemed 
to  tell  them  the  same,  the  sun  beaming  softly  on  the  grey  arches 
and  fresh  grass,  the  sky  clear  and  blue,  and  the  trees  that  shewed 
over  the  walls  bright  with  autumn  colouring,  all  suitable  to  the 
serenity  of  a  life  unclouded  to  its  last  moment.  Some  of  them  felt 
as  if  it  were  better  to  be  there,  than  in  their  saddened  desolate 
home. 

But  home  they  must  go,  and,  before  going  up  stairs,  as  Flora 
and  Etheldred  stood  a  moment  or  two  with  Norman,  Ethel  said  in  a 
tone  of  resolution,  and  of  some  cheerfulness,  '  Well,  we  have  to  bo- 
gin  afresh.' 


4-i  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

*  Yes,'  said  Flora,  *  it  is  a  groat  responsibility.  I  do  trust  we 
ma}'  be  enabled  to  do  as  we  ought.' 

*  And  now  Margaret  is  getting  better,  she  will  be  our  stay,'  said 
Etbel. 

'  I  niu.st  go  to  her,'  and  Flora  went  up  stairs. 

'  I  wish  1  could  be  as  useful  as  Flora,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  I  mean 
to  try,  and  if  I  can  but  keep  out  of  mischief,  it  will  be  something.' 

'  There  is  an  object  for  all  one  docs,  iu  trying  to  be  a  comfort  to 
papa.' 

'  Tliat's  no  use,'  said  Norman,  listlessly.     '  AVe  never  can.' 

'  0  but,  Norman,  he  won't  bo  always  as  he  is  now — I  am  Fare 
ho  cares  for  us  enough  to  be  pleased,  if  we  do  right  and  get  on.' 

*  We  used  to  be  so  happy  ! '  said  Norman. 

Ethel  hesitated  a  little,  and  presently  answered,  '  I  don't  think 
it  can  be  right  to  lament  for  our  own  sakcs  ^o  much,  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  don't  want  to  do  so,'  said  Norman,  in  the  same  dejected  way. 
'  I  suppose  we  ought  not  to  feel  it  either.'  Norman  only  shook 
hi.s  head.  '  Wc  ought  to  think  of  her  gain.  You  cau't?  AVell,  I 
am  glad,  for  no  more  can  I.  I  can't  think  of  her  liking  for  papa  and 
baby  and  all  of  us  to  be  left  to  ourselves,  liut  that's  not  right  of 
me,  and  of  course  it  all  comes  right  whei'C  she  is ;  so  I  always  put 
that  out  of  my  head,  and  think  what  is  to  come  next  in  doing,  and 
pleasing  papa,  and  learning.' 

'  That's  grown  horrid,'  said  Norman.  '  There's  no  pleasure  iu 
getting  on,  nor  iu  anything.' 

'  L)on't  you  care  for  papa  and  all  of  us  being  glad,  Norman  ?  ' 
As  Normau  could  not  just  then  say  that  be  did,  he  would  not 
answer. 

'  I  wish — '  said  Ethel,  disappointed,  but  cheering  up  the  next 
minute.     '  I  do  believe  it  is  having  nothing  to  do.     You  will  be  bet- 
ter when  you  get  back  to  school  on  Monday.' 
'  That  is  worst  of  all ! ' 

'  You  don't  like  going  among  the  boys  again  ?     But  that  must  bo 
done  some  time  or  other.     Or  shall  I  get  llichard  to  speak  to  Dr. 
Uoxton  to  let  you  have  another  week's  leave  ?  ' 
'  No,  no,  don't  be  foolish.     It  can't  be  helped.' 
'  I  am  A'ery  sorry,  but  I  think  you  will  be  better  for  it.' 
She  almost  began  to  fancy  herself  unfeeling,  when  she  found  him 
so  mucli  more  de]>ressed  than  she  was  herself,  and  unable  to  feel  it 
a  relief  to  know  that  the  time  of  rest,  and  want  of  occupation  was 
over.     She  thouglit  it  light-minded,  though  she  could  not  help  it,  to 
look  forward  to  the  daily  studies  where  she  might  lose  her  sad 
thoughts,  and  be  as  if  everything  were  as  usual.     But  suppose  she 
bliould  be  to  blame,  where  would  now  be  the  gentle  discipline  ?    Poor 
Ethel's  feelings  were  not  such  as  to  deserve  the  imputation  of  levity, 
when  this  thought  came  over  her ;  but  her  buoyant  mind,  always 


THE   D^USY   CH,U^7,  43 

seeking  for  consolation,  recurred  to  ^Targaret's  improyeinent,  and  slie 
fixed  lier  hopes  on  her. 

Margaret  was  more  alive  to  surrounding  objects,  and,  when 
roused,  she  knew  them  all,  answered  clearly  when  addressed,  had 
even,  more  than  once,  spoken  of  her  own  accord,  and  shewn  solici- 
tude at  the  sight  of  her  father's  bandaged,  helpless  arm,  but  he  soon 
soothed  this  away.  He  was  more  than  ever  watchful  over  her,  and 
could  scarcely  be  persuaded  to  leave  her  for  one  moment,  in  his  anx- 
iety to  be  at  hand  to  answer,  when  first  she  should  speak  of  her  mother, 
a  moment  apprehended  by  aU  the  rest,  almost  as  much  for  his  sake 
as  for  hers. 

So  clear  had  her  perceptions  been,  and  so  much  more  awake  did 
she  appear,  on  this  evening,  that  he  expected  the  enquiry  to  come 
every  moment,  and  lingered  in  her  room ;  till  she  asked  the  hour, 
and  begged  him  to  go  to  bed. 

As  lie  bent  over  her,  she  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  said,  softly, 
'  Dear  papa.' 

There  was  that  in  her  tone  which  showed  she  perceived  the  truth, 
and  he  knelt  by  her  side  kissing  her,  but  not  daring  to  relax  his  re- 
straint of  feeling. 

'  Dear  papa,'  she  said  again,  '  I  hope  I  shall  soon  be  better,  and 
be  some  comfort  to  you.' 

*  My  best — my  own — my  comfort,'  he  murmured,  all  ho  could 
say  without  giving  way. 

'  Baby — is  she  well  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  thank  Heaven,  she  has  not  suffered  at  all.' 

'  I  heard  her  this  morning,  I  must  see  her  to-morrow.  But  don't 
stay,  dear,  dear  papa,  it  is  late,  and  I  am  sure  you  are  not  at  all  well. 
Your  arm — is  it  very  much  hurt  ?  ' 

'  It  is  nothing  you  need  think  about,  my  dear.  I  am  much  bet- 
ter than  I  could  have  imagined  possible.' 

'  And  you  have  been  nursing  me  all  the  time  !  Papa,  you  must 
let  me  take  care  of  you  now.  Do  pray  go  to  bed  at  once,  and  get 
up  late.    Nurse  will  take  good  care  of  me.     Good  night,  dear  papa.' 

"When  Dr.  May  had  left  her,  and  tried  to  tell  Richard  how  it  had 
baen,  the  tears  cut  him  short,  and  had  their  free  course ;  but  there 
was  much  of  thankfulness,  for  it  might  be  looked  on  as  the  restora- 
^ion  of  his  daughter ;  the  worst  was  over,  and  the  next  day  he  was 
able  to  think  of  other  things,  had  more  attention  to  spare  for  the 
rest,  and  when  the  surgeon  came,  took  some  professional  interest  in 
the  condition  of  his  own  arm,  inquired  after  his  patients,  and  even 
talked  of  visiting  them. 

In  the  meantime,  Jlargaret  sent  for  her  eldest  brother,  begging 
him  to  tell  her  the  whole,  and  it  was  heard  as  calmly  and  firmly  as 
it  was  told.  Her  bodily  state  lulled  her  mind  ;  and  besides  it  was 
not  new;  she  had  observed  much  while  her  faculties  were  still  too 
uiueh  benumbed  for  her  to  understand  all,  or  to  express  her  feelings. 


4:6  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

Her  thoughts  seemed  chiefly  o'cciipled  witli  her  father.  She  made 
Ilichard  exphiin  to  her  the  injury  he  had  suffered,  and  begged  to  kuo'.v 
whether  his  constaut  attendance  ou  her,  could  do  him  hami.  She  was 
much  rrjoiocd  when  her  brother  assured  her  that  nothing  could  bo 
better  for  him,  and  she  began  to  say  with  a  smile,  that  very  likely 
lier  being  hurt  bad  been  fortunate.  She  asked  who  liad  taken  earo 
of  him  before  llicliard's  arrival,  and  was  pleased  to  hear  that  it  was 
Mr.  Eruescliffe.  A  visit  from  the  little  Gertrude  Margaret  was  hap- 
pily accomplished,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  day  was  most  satisfactory, 
lihe  herself  declaring  that  she  could  not  see  that  there  was  anything 
the  matter  with  her,  except  that  she  felt  lazy,  and  did  not  seem  able 
to  move. 

Thus  the  next  Sunday  morning  dawned  with  more  cheerfulness. 
Dr.  IMay  came  down  stairs  for  the  lirst  time,  in  order  to  go  to  Church 
with  his  whole  Hock,  except  the  two  Margarets.  lie  looked  very 
wan  and  shattered,  but  they  clustered  gladly  around  him,  when  he 
once  more  stood  among  them,  little  Blanche  securing  his  hand,  and 
nodding  triumphantly  to  Mr.  Ernescliffe,  as  much  as  to  say,  'Now 
I  have  him,  I  don't  want  you.' 

Norman  alone  was  missing  ;  but  he  was  in  his  place  at  Church 
among  the  boys.  Again  in  returning,  he  slipped  out  of  the  party  and 
was  at  home  the  first,  and  when  this  recurred  in  the  afternoon,  Ethel 
began  to  understand  his  motive.  The  High-street  led  past  the  spot 
where  the  accident  had  taken  place,  though  neither  she  nor  any  of 
the  others  knew  exactly  where  it  was,  except  Norman,  on  whose  mind 
the  scene  was  branded  indelibly  ;  she  guessed  that  it  was  to  avoid  it 
that  he  went  along  what  was  called  Randall's  Alley,  his  usual  short 
cut  to  school. 

That  Sunday  brought  back  to  the  children  that  there  was  no  one 
to  hear  their  hymns;  but  Kichard  was  a  great  comfort,  watching 
over  the  little  ones  more  like  a  sister  than  a  brother.  Ethel  was 
ashamed  of  herself  when  she  saw  him  taking  thought  for  them,  tying 
iJlanehe's  bonnet,  putting  Aubrey's  gloves  on,  teaching  them  to  put 
away  their  Sunday  toys,  as  if  he  meant  them  to  be  as  neat  and  pre- 
cise as  himself 

Dr.  iMay  did  not  encounter  the  family  dinner,  nor  attempt  a 
Bccond  going  to  Cbureli;  but  Blanche  was  very  glorious,  as  she  led 
him  down  to  drink  tea,  and,  before  going  up  again,  he  had  a  con- 
versation with  Alan  Eruescliffe,  who  felt  himself  obliged  to  leave 
Stoneborough  early  on  the  morrow. 

'  I  can  endure  better  to  go  now,'  said  ho,  *  and  I  shall  hear  of 
you  often ;  Hector  will  let  me  know,  and  Richard  has  promi.sed  to 
write.' 

*  Aye,  you  must  let  us  often  have  a  line.  I  .should  guess  you 
were  a  letter  writing  man.' 

*  I  have  hitlierto  had  too  few  frieuds  who  cared  to  bear  of  me  to 


THE   DAISY   CHAESr.  47 

write  luueli,  but  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  any  interest  is  taken 
in  me  here — ' 

'  Well,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  raind  that  a  letter  will  always  be  wel- 
come, and  when  you  are  coming  southwards,  here  are  your  old 
quarters.  We  cannot  lose  sight  of  you  any  way,  especially — '  and 
his  A'oice  quivered,  '  after  the  help  you  gave  my  poor  boys  and  girls 
in  their  distress.' 

'  It  would  be  the  utmost  satisfaction  to  think  I  had  been  of  the 
smallest  use,'  said  Alan,  hiding  much  under  these  common-place 
words. 

'  More  than  I  know,'  said  Dr.  May ;  '  too  much  to  speak  of — 
Well,  we  shall  see  you  again,  though  it  is  a  changed  place,  and  you 
must  come  and  see  your  god-daughter — poor  child — may  she  only 
be  brought  up  as  her  sisters  were  !  They  will  do  their  best,  poor 
things,  and  so  must  I,  but  it  is  sad  work ! ' 

lioth  were  too  much  overcome  for  words,  but  the  Doctor  was 
the  first  to  continue,  as  he  took  off  his  dimmed  spectacles.  Ho 
seemed  i,o  wish  to  excuse  himself  for  giving  way ;  saying,  with  a 
look  that  would  fain  have  been  a  smile,  '  The  world  has  run  so  light 
and  easy  with  me  hitherto,  that  you  see  I  don't  know  how  to  bear 
with  trouble.  All  thinking  and  managing  fell  to  my  Maggie's 
share,  and  I  had  as  little  care  on  my  hands  as  one  of  my  own  boys 
— poor  fellows.  1  don't  know  how  it  is  to  turn  out,  but  of  all  the 
men  on  earth  to  be  left  with  eleven  children,  I  should  choose  myself 
as  the  worst.' 

Alan  tried  to  say  somewhat  of  '  Confidence — affection — daugh- 
ters,' and  broke  down,  but  it  did  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  connected- 

'  Yes,  yes,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  they  are  good  children,  everyone 
of  them.  There's  much  to  be  thankful  for,  if  one  could  only  pluck 
up  heart  to  feel  it.' 

'  And  you  are  convinced  that  Marga — that  Miss  May  is  recov- 
ering.' 

'  She  has  made  a  great  advance  to-day.  The  head  is  right,  at 
least,'  but  the  Doctor  looked  anxious,  and  spoke  low,  as  he  said, 
'  I  am  not  satisfied  about  her  yet.  That  want  of  power  over  the 
limbs  ia  more  than  the  mere  shock  and  debility,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
though  Ward  thinks  otherwise,  and  I  trust  he  is  right ;  but  I  can- 
not tell  yet  as  to  the  spine.  If  this  should  not  soon  mend,  I  shall 
have  Fleet  to  see  her.  He  was  a  fellow-student  of  mine,  very  clever, 
and  I  have  more  faith  in  him  than  in  anyone  else  in  that  line !  ' 

'  By  all  means —  Yes — '  said  Alan,  excessively  shocked.  '  But 
you  will  let  me  know  how  she  goes  on — Richard  will  be  so  kind.' 

'  We  will  not  fail,'  said  Dr.  May,  more  and  more  touched  at  the 
sight  of  the  young  sailor  struggling  in  vain  to  restrain  his  emotion ; 
'  you  shall  hear.  I'll  write  myself,  as  soon  as  I  can  use  my  hand, 
but  I  hope  she  may  be  all  right  long  before  that  is  likely  to  be' 

'  Your  kindness — '  Alan  attempted   to  say,  but   began  again. 


48  TIIK   DAISV    CHAIN. 

Feeling  as  I  must — '  then  interrupting  himself.     '  I  beg  your 
pardon,  'tis  no  fit  time,  nor  fit — But  you'll  let  me  hear.' 

'  Thiit  I  will,'  said  Dr.  31  ay,  and  as  Alan  hastily  left  the  room, 
lie  continued,  half  aloud,  to  hinWdf,  '  Poor  boy  !  poor  fellow  !  I  see. 
No  wonder  !  Heaven  grant  I  have  not  been  the  breaking  of  their 
two  young  hcart.s,  as  well  as  my  own  !  Maggie  looked  duubtful — 
as  much  as  she  ever  did  when  my  mind  was  set  on  a  thing,  when  ] 
.spoke  of  bringing  him  here.  But  after  all,  she  liked  him  as  much 
as  the  rest  of  us  did — she  could  not  wish  it  otherwise — he  is  one 
of  a  thousand,  and  worthy  of  our  Margaret.  That  he  is !  and 
Maggie  thinks  so.  If  he  gets  on  in  his  profession,  why  then  we 
shall  see — '  b'-it  the  sigh  of  anguish  of  mind,  here  showed  that  the 
wound  had  but  bceu  forgotten  for  one  moment. 

'  P.shaw  !  WJuit  am  I  running  on  to  ?  I'm  all  astray  for  want 
of  her  !     My  poor  girl — ' 

Mr.  Ernesclifre  set  out  before  sunrise.  The  boys  were  up  to 
wish  him  good-bye,  and  so  were  Etheldred  and  Mary,  and  some  one 
else,  for  while  the  shaking  of  hands  was  going  on  in  the  hall,  there 
was  a  call  '  3Ir.  Ernthclitle,'  and  over  the  balusters  peeped  a  little 
rough  curly  head,  a  face  glowing  with  carnation  deepened  by  sleep, 
and  a  round,  plump,  bare  arm  and  shoulder ;  and  down  at  Alan's 
feet  there  fell  a  construction  of  white  and  pink  paper,  while  a  voice 
lisped  out,  '  Mr.  Ernthcliffe,  there's  a  white  rothe  for  you.' 

An  indignant  '  Miss  Blanche  ! '  was  iicard  behind,  and  there  wag 
no  certainty  that  any  thanks  reached  the  poor  little  heroine,  who 
was  evidently  borne  off  summarily  to  the  nursery,  while  Ethel  gave 
way  to  a  paroxysm  of  suppressed  laughter,  joined  in,  more  or  less, 
by  all  the  rest ;  and  thus  Alan,  promising  faithfully  to  preserve  the 
precious  token,  left  Dr.  May's  door,  not  in  so  much  outward  sorro\i 
as  he  had  expected. 

Even  their  father  laughed  at  the  romance  of  the  white  'rothe,' 
and  declared  Blanche  was  a  dangerous  young  lady  ;  but  the  story 
was  less  successful  with  Miss  Winter,  who  gravely  said  it  was  no 
wonder,  since  Blanche's  elder  sister  had  been  setting  her  the  ex- 
aini)le  of  forwardness  in  coming  down  in  this  way  after  Mr.  Ernes- 
clilie.  Ethel  was  very  angry,  and  was  only  prevented  from  vindi- 
cating herself,  by  remembering  there  was  no  peace-maker  now,  and 
that  she  had  resolved  only  to  think  of  Miss  Winter's  late  kindness, 
and  bear  with  lur  tiresome  ways. 

Etheldred  thought  herself  too  sorrowful  to  be  liable  to  her  usual 
faults,  which  would  seem  so  mucli  worse  now;  but  she  found  herself 
more  irritable  than  usual,  and  doubly  heedless,  because  her  mind 
was  prc-occupied.  She  hated  herself,  and  suflcrcd  more  from 
.sorrow  than  even  at  the  first  moment,  for  now  she  felt  what  it  was 
to  have  no  one  to  tame  her,  no  eye  over  her;  she  found  herself 
coing  a  fort  ct  a  iravcrs  all  the  morning,  and  with  no  one  to  set 
her  right.     Sir.ee  it  was  so  the  first  day,  what  would  follow  ? 


TIEE   DAISY   CHATN^.  49 

Mary  was  on  tlie  contrary  so  far  subdued,  as  to  be  exemplary 
in  goodness  and  diligence,  and  Blanche  was  always  steady.  Flora 
was  too  busy  to  think  of  the  school-room,  for  the  whole  house  was 
on  her  hands,  beside  the  charge  of  Margaret,  while  Dr.  May  went 
to  the  hospital,  and  to  sundry  patients,  and  they  thought  he  seemed 
the  better  for  the  occupation,  as  well  as  gratified  and  affected  by 
the  sympathy  he  everywhere  met  with,  from  high  and  low. 

The  boys  were  at  school,  unseen  except  when  at  the  dinner 
play-hour,  JS'orman  ran  home  to  ask  after  hife  father  and  sister,  but 
the  most  trying  time  was  at  eight  in  the  evening,  when  they  came 
home.  That  was  wont  to  be  the  merriest  part  of  the  whole  da}^, 
the  whole  family  collected,  papa  at  leisure  and  ready  for  talk  or 
for  play,  mamma  smiling  over  her  work-basket,  the  sisters  full  of 
chatter,  the  brothers  full  of  fun,  all  the  tidings  of  the  day  discussed, 
and  nothing  unwelcome  but  bed-time.  How  different  now  !  The 
Doctor  was  with  Margaret,  and  though  Eichard  tried  to  say  some- 
thing cheerful,  as  his  brothers  entered,  there  was  no  response,  and 
they  sat  down  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the  fire,  fcrlorn  and  silent, 
till  Eichard  who  was  painting  some  letters  on  card-board  to  supply 
the  gaps  in  Aubrey's  ivory  Alphabet,  called  Harry  to  help  him; 
but  Ethel,  as  she  sat  at  work,  could  only  look  at  Norman,  and  wish 
she  could  devise  anything  likely  to  gratify  him. 

After  a  time  Flora  came  down,  and  laying  some  sheets  of  closely 
written  note  paper  before  her  sister,  said,  '  Here  is  dear  mamma's 
unfinished  letter  to  aunt  Flora.  Papa  says  we  elder  ones  are  to 
read  it.  It  is  a  description  of  us  all,  and  very  much  indeed  we 
ought  to  learn  from  it.     I  shall  keep  a  copy  of  it.' 

Flora  took  up  her  work,  and  began  to  consult  with  Piichard, 
while  Ethel  moved  to  Norman's  side,  and  kneelicg  so  as  to  lean 
against  his  shoulder,  as  he  sat  on  a  low  cushion,  they  read  their 
mother's  List  letter,  by  the  fire-light,  with  indescribable  feelings,  as 
they  went  through  the  subjects  that  had  lately  occupied  them,  re- 
lated by  her  who  would  never  be  among  them  again.  After  much 
of  this  kind,  for  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Arnott  were  almost  journals^ 
came, 

'  Yo'i  say  it  is  long  since  you  had  a  portrait  gallery  of  the  cliicken  daisies,  and 
if  I  do  not  write  in  these  leisure  days,  you  -will  hardly  get  it  after  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  business  again.  The  new  Daisy  is  like  Margaret  at  the  same  age — may 
ihe  continue  like  her !  Pretty  creature,  she  can  hardly  be  more  charming  than 
at  present.  Aubrey,  the  moon-faced,  is  far  from  reconciled  to  his  deposition  from 
babyhood  ;  he  is  a  sober,  solemn  gentleman,  backward  in  talking,  and  with  such 
a  will  of  his  own,  as  will  want  much  watching ;  very  different  from  Blanche, 
who  is  Flora  over  agaui,  perhaps  prettier,  and  more  fairy-like,  unless  this  is  only 
one's  admiration  for  the  buds  of  the  present  season.  None  of  them  has  ever  been 
Eo  winning  as  this  little  maid,  who  even  attracts  Dr.  Hoxton  himself,  and  obtains 
sugar-plums  and  kisses.  "  Rather  she  than  I,"  says  Harry,  but  notice  is  notice 
to  the  white  iJayflower,  and  there  is  my  anxiety — I  am  afraid  it  is  not  whole- 
some to  be  too  engaging  ever  to  get  a  rebuff.  I  hope  having  a  younger  sister, 
and  outgrowing  baby  charms  mav  be  salutarv.     Flcia  soon  left  off  thinking  about 

Vol.  I.— 3 


50  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

her  beauty,  >vnd  the  fit  of  vanity  docs  less  barm  at  five  tban  fifteen.  My  pool 
Tom  has  not  such  a  happy  life  as  Blanche,  he  is  often  in  trouble  at  lessons,  and 
bullied  hy  Harry  at  pliiy,  in  spite  of  bis  champion,  Mary;  and  yet  I  cannot 
interfere,  for  it  is  good  for  him  to  have  all  this  preparatory  tcazing,  before  be 
goes  into  school.  "  lie  has  good  abilities,  but  not  much  perseverance  or  energy, 
and  I  must  take  the  teaching  of  him  into  my  own  bands  till  his  schooldays  begin, 
in  hopes  of  instilling  them.  The  girlishness  and  timidity  will  be  knocked  out  of 
him  by  the  boys,  I  suppose  ;  Harry  is  too  kind  and  generous  to  do  more  than  tcazo 
?»im  moflerately,  and  Norman  will  see  that  it  does  not  go  too  far.  It  is  a  common 
saying  that  Tom  and  IMary  made  a  mistake,  that  he  is  the  girl,  and  she  tire  boy, 
for  she  is  a  rough,  merry  creature,  the  noisiest  in  the  bouse,  always  skirmbhing 
with  Harry  in  defence  of  Tom,  and  yet  devoted  to  him,  and  wan.ing  to  do  every- 
thing he  does.  Those  two,  Harrj'  and  Mary,  are  exactly  alike,  except  for  Harry's 
curly  mane  of  lion-coloured  wig.  The  "yellow  haired  laddie  "  is  papa's  name 
for  ilarrj',  which  he  does  not  mind  from  him,  though  fiu-ious  if  the  girls  attempt 
to  call  him  so.  Harry  is  the  thorough  boy  of  the  family,  all  spirit,  recklessness, 
and  mischief,  but  so  true,  and  kind,  and  noble-hearted,  that  one  loves  him  the 
better  after  every  freely  confessed  scrape.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am 
to  my  boy  for  his  perfect  confidence,  the  thing  that  chiefly  lessens  my  anxiety  lor 
him  in  his  hah'-school,  half-home  life,  which  does  not  seem  to  me  to  work  quite 
well  with  him.  There  are  two  sons  of  Mrs.  Anderson's  at  the  school,  who  are 
more  his  friends  than  I  like,  and  he  is  too  easily  led  by  the  desire  not  to  be  out- 
done, and  to  show  that  he  fears  nothing.  Lately,  our  sailor-guest  has  inspired 
him  with  a  vehement  wish  to  go  to  sea  ;  I  wish  it  was  not  necessary  that  the 
deci.sion  should  be  made  so  early  in  life,  for  this  fault  is  just  what  would  make  us 
most  fear  to  send  hira  into  the  world  very  young,  though  in  some  ways  it  might 
not  do  amiss  for  him. 

'  So  much  for  the  younger  bairns,  whom  you  never  beheld,  dear  Flora.  The 
three  whom  you  left,  when'  people  used  to  waste  pity  on  me  for  their  being  all 
babies  together,  now  look  as  if  any  pair  of  them  were  twuis,  for  Norman  13  the 
tallest,  ahuost  outgrowing  his  strength,  and  Ethel's  sharp  face,  so  like  her  papa's, 
makes  her  look  older  than  Flora.  Norman  and  Ftlicl  do  indeed  take  after  their 
papa,  more  than  any  of  the  others,  and  arc  much  alike.  There  is  the  s:ime  bril- 
liant cleverness,  the  same  strong  feeling,  noteasy  of  demonstration,  though  impet- 
uous in  action ;  but  poor  Ethel's  old  foibles,  her  harum-scarum  nature,  quick 
temper,  uncouth  manners,  and  heedlessness  of  all  but  one  absorbing  object,  have 
kept  l.cr  back,  and  caused  her  much  discomfort ;  yet  I  sometimes  think  these 
manifest  defects  have  occasionea  a  discipline  that  is  the  best  thing  for  the  char- 
acter in  the  end.  They  are  faults  that  show  themselves,  and  which  one  can  tell 
bow  to  deal  with,  and  I  have  full  confidence  that  she  has  the  principle  within  her 
that  will  conquer  them.' 

'  If^'  mournfully  sighed  Etliel ;  but  her  brother  pointed  ou 
further. 

'  l^Ty  great  hope  is  her  entire  indifference  to  praise — not  approval,  but  praise. 
If  she  lias  not  come  up  to  her  own  standard,  she  works  on,  not  always  with  good 
temper,  but  perscveringly,  and  entirely  imheeding  of  commendation  till  she  has 
satisfied  herself,  only  thinking  it  stupid  not  to  see  the  faults.  It  is  this  inde- 
lieudence  of  praise  that  I  want  to  see  in  her  brother  and  sister.  They  justly  earn 
it,  and  are  rightly  pleased  with  it ;  but  I  cannot  feel  sure  whether  they  do  not 
depend  on  it  too  much.  Norinau  lives,  like  all  school-boys,  a  life  of  emulation, 
and  has  never  met  with  anything  but  success.  I  do  believe  Dr.  lloxton  and 
Mr.  AVihnot  are  as  proud  of  him  as  wo  arc  ;  and  he  has  never  sho-ATi  any  ten- 
dency to  conceit,  but  I  am  afraid  bo  has  the  love  of  being  foremost,  and  pride  iu 
his  superiority,  caring  for  what  he  is,  compared  with  others,  rather  than  what  bt 
is  hiuisvll'.' 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  51 

*  I  know,'  said  Norman  ;  '  I  have  done  so,  but  that's  orer.  I  see 
what  it  is  worth.  I'd  give  all  the  qiiam  optimes  I  ever  got  in  my 
life  to  be  the  help  Richard  is  to  papa.' 

'  You  would  if  you  were  his  age.' 

'  Not  I,  I'm  not  the  sort.  I'm  not  like  her.  But  are  we  to  go 
on  about  the  elders  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  yes,  don't  let  us  miss  a  word.  There  can't  be  anything 
but  praise  of  them.' 

'  Your  sweet  goddaughter.  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  had  spoken  in  disparagement 
of  her,  but  I  meant  no  such  thing,  dear  girl.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  fault  in 
her,  since  the  childish  love  of  admiration  was  subdued.  She  is  so  solid  and 
steady,  as  to  be  very  valuable  with  the  younger  ones,  and  is  fast  growing  so 
lovely,  that  I  wish  you  could  behold  her.  I  do  not  see  any  vanity,  but  there 
lies  my  dread,  not  of  beauty-vanity,  hut  that  she  will  find  temptation  in  the 
being  everywhere  liked  and  sought  after.  As  to  Margaret,  my  precious  com- 
panion and  friend,  you  have  heard  enough  of  her  to  know  her,  and,  as  to  telling 
you  what  she  is  hke,  I  could  as  soon  set  about  describing  her  papa.  When  I 
thought  of  not  being  spared  to  them  this  time,  it  was  happiness  indeed  to  think 
of  her  at  their  head,  fit  to  be  his  companion,  with  so  much  of  his  own  talent  as 
to  be  more  up  to  conversation  with  him,  than  he  could  ever  have  found  his  stupid 
old  Maggie.  It  was  rather  a  trial  of  her  discretion  to  have  Mr.  Erneschffe  here 
Vfhile  I  was  up-stairs,  and  very  well  she  seems  to  have  come  out  of  it.  Poor 
Richard's  last  disappointment  is  still  our  chief  trouble.  He  has  been  working 
hard  with  a  tutor  all  through  the  vacation,  and  has  not  even  come  home  to  see 
his  new  sister,  on  his  way  to  Oxford.  He  had  made  a  resolution  that  he  would 
not  come  to  us,  till  he  had  passed,  and  his  father  thought  it  best  that  it  should 
be  kept.  I  hope  he  will  succeed  next  time,  hut  his  nervousness  I'enders  it  still 
more  doubtful.  With  him  it  is  the  very  reverse  of  Norman.  He  sufiers  too 
much  for  want  of  commendation,  and  I  cannot  wonder  at  it,  when  I  see  how 
much  each  iailure  vexes  his  father,  and  Richard  little  knows  how  precious  is  our 
perfect  confidence  in  him,  how  much  more  valuable  than  any  honours  he  could 
earn.  You  would  be  amused  to  see  how  little  he  is  altered  from  the  pretty 
little  fair  fellow,  that  you  used  to  say,  was  so  like  my  old  portrait,  even  the  wavy 
rings  of  light  glossy  hair  sit  on  his  forehead,  just  as  you  liked  to  twist  them  ; 
and  his  small  trim  figure  is  a  fine  contrast  to  Norman's  long  legs  and  arms, 
which — ' 

There  the  letter  broke  off,  the  playful  affection  of  the  last 
words  making  it  almost  more  painful  to  think  that  the  fond  hand 
would  never  hnish  the  sentence. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

'A  drooping  daisy  changed  into  a  cup, 
ia  wliich  hci-  bright-eyed  beauty  is  shut  upr. 

"WOEDSWORTU. 

•  So  there  you  are  up  for  the  day — really  you  look  very  comfort- 
able,' said  Ethel,  coming  into  the  room  where  Margaret  lay  on  her 
bed,  half  raised  by  pillows,  supported  by  a  wooden  frame. 

'  Yes,  is  not  it  a  charming  contrivance  of  Richard's  ?     It  quite 
£;ives  me  the  use  of  my  hands,'  said  Margaret. 


53  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

'I  tliiuk  he  is  doing  something  else  for  you,' said  Ethol;  •] 
heard  him  carpentering  at  six  o'clock  this  morning,  but  I  suppose 
it  is  to  be  a  secret.' 

'  And  don't  you  admire  her  night-cap  ?  '  said  Flora. 
'Is  it  anything  different V  said  Ethel,  peering  closer.     '0,1 
tee — so  she  has  a  hue  day-night-eap.    Is  that  your  taste.  Flora?' 

'  Partly,'  said  Margaret,  '  and  partly  my  own.  I  put  in  all  theso 
little  white  puffs,  and  I  hope  you  think  they  do  me  credit.  AVasn't 
it  grand  of  mc  ? ' 

'  She  only  despises  you  for  them,'  said  Flora. 
'I'm  very  glad  you  could,'  said  Ethel  gravely;  'but  do  you 
know?  it  is  ratlicr  like  that  horrid  old  lady  in  some  book,  who  had 
a  paralytic  stroke,  and  the  first  thing  she  did  that  showed  she  had 
come  to  her  senses  was  to  write,  "  llose-coloured  curtains  for  the 
Doctors." ' 

'  AVcll,  it  was  for  the  Doctor,'  said  Margaret,  '  and  it  had  its 
effect,  lie  told  me  I  looked  much  better  when  he  found  mo  trying 
it  on.' 

'  Aud  did  you  r«ally  have  the  looking-glass  and  try  it  on  ? '  cried 
EtheL 

*  Yes,  really,'  said  Flora.  *  Don't  you  think  one  may  as  well  bo 
fit  to  be  seen  if  one  is  jU  ?  It  is  no  use  to  depress  one's  friends 
by  being  more  forlorn  and  disconsolate  than  one  can  help.' 

'  Xo — not  disconsolate,' said  Ethel;  'but  the  white  puffiuess — 
and  the  heniniiug — and  the  glass  ! ' 

'  Poor  Ethel  can't  get  over  it,'  said  Margaret.  '  But,  Ethel, 
do  you  think  there  is  nothing  disconsolate  in  untidiness  ?  ' 

'  You  could  be  tidy  without  the  little  puffs  !  Your  first  bit  of 
work  too  1  Don't  think  I'm  tiresome.  If  they  were  an  amusement 
to  you,  I  am  sure  I  am  very  glad  of  them,  but  I  can't  sec  the  sense 
of  them.' 

'  Poor  little  things  ! '  said  Margaret  laughing.  '  It  is  only  my 
foible  for  making  a  thing  look  nice.  And,  Ethel,'  she  added,  draw- 
ing her  down  close  over  her,  '  I  did  not  think  the  trouble  wasted, 
if  seeing  me  look  fresher  cheered  up  dear  papa  a  moment.' 

'  I  spoke  to  papa  about  nurse's  proposal,'  said  Margaret  present- 
ly to  Flora,  '  and  he  quite  agrees  to  it.  Indeed  it  is  impossiblo 
that  Aime  should  attend  properly  to  all  the  children  while  nurse  is 
so  much  engaged  with  me.' 

'  I  think  so,'  said  Flora  ;  '  and  it  does  not  answer  to  bring  Au- 
brey into  the  school-room.  It  only  makes  Mary  and  Blanche  idle, 
and  3Ii.ss  Winter  docs  not  like  it.' 

'  Then  the  (juestion  is,  wlio  shall  it  be  ?     Nurse  has  no  one  in  view, 
and  only  protests  against  "  one  of  the  girls  out  of  the  school  here."' 
'  Tiiat's  a  great  pity,'  said  Flora.     '  Don't  you  think  we  could 
make  her  take  to  Jane  Wliife,  she  is  so  very  nice.' 

'  I  thought  of  her,  Irut  it  will  never  answer  if  we  displease  nurso 


THE   DAISY   CIIAIX.  53 

Besides,  I  remember  at  the  time  Anne  came,  dear  mamma  thouglit 
there  was  danger  of  a  girl's  having  too  many  acquaintances,  espe- 
cially taking  the  children  out  walking.  We  cannot  always  be  sure 
of  sending  her  out  with  Anne.' 

'  Do  you  remember  ' — said  Ethel,  there  stopping. 

'  Well,'  said  both  sisters. 

'  Don't  you  recollect,  Flora,  that  girl  whose  father  was  in  the 
hospital — that  girl  at  Cocksmoor  ?  ' 

'  I  do,'  said  Flora.     '  She  was  a  very  nice  girl ,  I  wonder  whe 
ther  nurse  would  approve  of  her.' 

'  How  old  ?  '  said  Margaret. 

'  Fourteen,  «nd  tall.     Such  a  clean  cottage ! ' 

The  girls  went  ou,  and  Margaret  began  to  like  the  idea  very  much; 
and  consider  whether  the  girl  could  be  brought  for  inspection,  before 
nurse  was  prejudiced  by  hearing  of  her  Cocksmoor  extraction.  At 
that  moment  Richard  knocked  at  the  door,  and  entered  with  Tom, 
helping  him  to  bring  a  small  short-legged  table,  such  as  could  stand 
pn  the  bed  at  the  right  height  for  Margaret's  meals  or  employments. 

There  were  great  exclamations  of  satisfaction,  and  gratitude ; 
'  it  was  the  very  thing  wanted,  only  how  could  he  have  contrived  it  ? ' 

'  Don't  you  recognise  it  ? '  said  he. 

'  0, 1  see ;  it  is  the  old  drawing-desk  that  no  one  used.  And  you 
haveputlegsto  it — howfamous !  You  are  the  best  contriver,  Richard !' 

'  Then  see,  you  can  raise  it  up  for  reading  or  writing ;  here's  a 
corner  for  your  ink  to  stand  flat ;  and  there  it  is  down  for  your  dinner.' 

'  Charming,  you  have  made  it  go  so  easily,  when  it  used  to  be 
so  stifi".  There — give  me  my  work-basket,  please,  Ethel ;  I  mean 
to  make  some  more  white  puffs.' 

'  What's  the  matter  now,  Ethel  ?  '  said  Flora ;  '  you  look  as  if 
you  did  not  approve  of  the  table.' 

'  I  was  only  thinking  it  was  as  if  she  was  settling  herself  to  lie 
in  bed  for  a  very  long  time,'  said  Ethel. 

'  I  hope  not,'  said  Richard ;  '  but  I  don't  see  why  she  should 
not  be  as  comfortable  as  she  can,  while  she  is  there.' 

'  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  will  never  be  ill,  Ethel,'  said  Flora. 
'  You  would  be  horrid  to  nurse ! ' 

'  She  will  know  how  to  be  grateful  when  she  is,'  said  Margaret. 

'  I  say,  Richard,'  exclaimed  Ethel, '  this  is  hospital-meeting  day 
so  you  won't  be  wanted  to  drive  papa.' 

'  No,  I  am  at  your  service  ;  do  you  want  a  walk  ? ' 

So  it  was  determined  that  Richard  and  Ethel  should  walk  to- 
gether to  Cocksmoor. 

No  two  people  could  be  much  more  unlike  than  Richard  and 
Etheldred  May ;  but  they  were  very  fond  of  each  other.  Richard 
was  sometimes  seriously  annoyed  by  Ethel's  heedlessness,  and  did  not 
always  understand  her  sublimities,  but  he  had  a  great  deal  of  admira- 
tion for  one  who  partook  so  much  of  his  father's  nature ;  and  Ethel 


54:  Tin-:  daisv  chain. 

luul  a  clue  respect  tor  licr  eldest  brother,  gratitude  and  stroug  affeo^ 
lion  for  many  kindnesses,  a  reverence  for  his  sterling  goodness,  and 
his  oxeniption  from  her  own  besetting  failings,  only  a  little  damped 
by  her  compassionate  wonder  at  his  deficiency  in  talent,  and  by  her 
vexation  at  not  being  always  comprehended. 

They  went  by  the  road,  for  the  plantation  gate  was  far  too  serious 
an  undertaking  for  any  one  not  in  the  highest  spirits  for  enterprise. 
On  the  way  there  was  a  good  deal  of  that  desultory  talk,  very  socia- 
ble and  interesting,  that  is  apt  to  prevail  between  two  people,  who 
would  never  have  chosen  each  other  for  companions,  if  they  were 
uot  of  the  same  family,  but  who  are  nevertheless  very  affectionate 
and  companionable.  Ethel  was  anxious  to  licar  wfcat  her  brother 
thought  of  papa's  spirits,  and  whether  he  ialkcd  in  their  drives. 

'  Sometimes,'  said  Richard.  '  It  is  just  as  it  happens.  Now 
and  then  he  goes  on  just  like  himself,  and  then  at  other  times  he 
will' not  speak  for  three  or  four  miles.' 

'  And  he  sighs  ?  '  said  Ethel.  '  Those  sighs  are  so  very  sad,  and 
lung,  and  deep  !  They  seem  to  have  whole  volumes  in  them,  as  if 
there  was  such  a  weight  on  him.' 

*  Some  people  say  he  is  not  as  much  altered  as  they  expected,' 
said  llichard. 

'  Oh  !  do  they  ?  Well !  I  can't  fancy  any  one  feeling  it  more. 
lie  can't  leave  off  his  old  self,  of  course,  but' — Ethel  stopped  short. 

'  Margaret  is  a  great  comfort  to  him,'  said  llichard. 

'  That  she  is.  She  thinks  of  him  all  day  long,  and  I  don't  think 
either  of  them  is  ever  so  happy  as  in  the  evening,  wlicn  he  sits  with 
her.     They  talk  about  mamma  then' — 

It  was  just  what  llichard  could  not  do,  and  he  made  some  obser- 
vation to  change  the  subject,  but  Ethel  returned  to  it,  so  far  as  to 
beg  to  know  how  the  arm  was  going  on,  for  she  did  not  like  to  say 
any  thing  about  it  to  papa. 

*  It  will  be  a  long  business,  I  am  afraid,'  said  Richard.  'In- 
deed, he  said  the  other  day,  he  thought  he  should  never  have  the 
free  use  of  the  elbow.' 

'  And  do  you  think  it  is  very  painful  ?  I  saw  the  other  day, 
when  Aubrey  was  sitting  on  his  knee  and  fidgettlng,  he  shrank 
whenever  lie  even  came  towards  it,  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  bear  to  put  him  down.' 

'  Yes,  it  is  excessively  tender,  and  sometimesgcts  very  badat  night.' 

'  Ah,'  said  Ethel,  '  there's  a  line — here — round  his  eyes,  that 
there  never  used  to  be,  and  when  it  deepens,  I  am  sure  he  is  in 
pain,  or  has  been  kept  awake.' 

'  You  are  very  odd,  Elhcl ;  how  do  you  sec  things  in  people's 
faces,  when  you  miss  so  much  at  just  the  same  distance?  ' 

'  I  look  after  what  I  care  about,'  said  Ethel.  '  One  sees  more 
Xf'iiii  oue's  mind  than  one's  eyes.     The  best  sight  is  inside.' 

'But  do  you  always  sec  the  truth  ?  '  said  Richard  gravely. 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  55 

*  Quite  euougb.  What  is  less  common  tLau  the  ordiuary  world  ? ' 
said  Ethel. 

Richard  shook  his  head,  not  quite  satisfied,  but  not  sure  enougt 
tluit  he  entered  into  her  meaning  to  question  it. 

'  I  wonder  you  don't  w-ear  spectacles,'  was  the  result  of  his  medi- 
tation, and  it  made  her  laugh  by  being  so  inapposite  to  her  own 
reflections ;  but  the  laugh  ended  in  a  melancholy  look.  '  Dear 
mamma  did  not  like  me  to  use  them,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Thus  they  talked  till  they  arrived  at  Cocksmoor,  where  poor 
Mrs.  Taylor,  inspirited  by  better  reports  of  her  husband  and  the 
hopes  for  her  daughter,  was  like  another  woman.  Richard  was  very 
careful  not  to  raise  false  expectations,  saying  it  all  depended  on  Miss 
May  and  nurse,  and  what  they  thought  of  her  strength  and  steadi- 
ness, but  these  cautions  did  not  seem  capable  of  damping  the  hopes 
of  the  smooth-haired  Lucy,  who  stood  smiling  and  curtseying.  The 
twins  were  grown  and  improved,  and  Ethel  supposed  they  would  be 
brought  to  Church  on  the  next  Christening  Sunday,  but  their  moth- 
er looked  helpless  and  hopeless  about  getting  them  so  far,  and  how 
was  she  to  get  gossips  ?  Ethel  began  to  grow  very  indignant,  but 
she  was  always  shy  of  finding  fault  with  poor  people  to  their  faces 
when  she  would  not  have  done  so  to  persons  in  her  own  station,  and 
so  she  was  silent,  while  Richard  hoped  they  would  be  able  to  man- 
age, and  said  it  would  be  better  not  to  wait  another  month  for  still 
worse  weather  and  shorter  days. 

As  they  were  coming  out  of  the  house,  a  big,  rough-looking, 
uncivilized  boy  came  up  before  them,  and  called  out,  '  I  say — ben't 
you  the  young  Doctor  up  at  Stoneborough  ? ' 

'  I  am  Dr.  May's  son,'  said  Richard ;  while  Ethel,  startled,  clung 
to  his  arm,  in  dread  of  some  rudeness. 

'  Granny's  bad,'  said  the  boy ;  proceeding  without  further  expla- 
nation to  lead  the  way  to  another  hovel,  though  Richard  tried  to 
explain  that  the  knowledge  of  medicine  was  not  in  his  case  heredi- 
tary, A  poor  old  woman  sat  groaning  over  the  fire,  and  two  chil- 
dren crouched,  half-clothed  on  the  bare  floor. 

Richard's  gentle  voice  and  kind  manner  drew  forth  some  won- 
derful descriptions — '  her  head  was  all  of  a  goggle,  her  legs  all  of  a 
fur,  she  felt  as  if  some  one  was  cutting  right  through  her.' 

'  Well,'  said  Richard  kindly,  '  I  am  no  Doctor  myself,  but  I'll 
ask  my  father  about  you,  and  perhaps  he  can  give  you  an  order  for 
the  hospital.' 

'  No,  no,  thank  ye,  Sir ;  I  can't  go  to  the  hospital,  I  can't  leave 
these  poor  children ;  they've  no  father  nor  mother.  Sir,  and  no  one 
to  do  for  them  but  me.' 

'  What  do  you  all  live  on,  then  ?  '  said  Richard,  looking  round 
the  desolate  hut. 

'  On  Sam's  wages.  Sir ;  that's  that  boy.  He  is  a  good  boy  to 
Die,  Sir,  and  his  little  sisters ;  he  brings  it,  all  he  gets,  home  to  me, 


50  Till-:    DAISY    CIIAIX, 

rig'lar,  but  'tis  but  six  shillings  a  week,  and  they  makes  him  take  half 
of  it  out  in  goods  and  beer,  which  is  a  bad  thing  for  a  boy  like  him,  Sir. 

"  Uow  old  are  you,  Sam  ?  ' 

Sam  scratched  his  head,  and  answered  nothing.  His  grand 
mother  knew  lie  was  the  age  of  her  black  bonnet,  and  as  he  looked 
about  fifteen,  Ethel  honoured  him  and  the  bonnet  accordingly,  whilo 
Richard  said  he  must  be  very  glad  to  be  able  to  maintain  them  all, 
at  his  ago,  and,  promising  to  try  to  bring  his  father  that  way,  since 
prescribing  at  second  hand  for  such  curious  symptoms  was  more  than 
cuuld  be  expected,  he  took  his  leave. 

'  A  wretched  place,'  said  llichard,  looking  round.  '  I  don't  know 
what  lielp  there  is  for  the  people.  There's  no  one  to  do  any  thing 
for  them,  and  it's  of  no  use  to  tell  them  to  come  to  Church  when  it 
is  so  far  off,  and  there  is  so  little  room  for  them.' 

'  It  is  miserable,' said  Ethel;  and  all  her  thoughts  during  her 
last  walk  thither  began  to  rush  over  her  again,  not  effaced,  but  rather 
burnt  in,  by  all  that  had  subsequently  happened.  She  had  said  it 
should  be  her  aim  and  effort  to  make  Cocksmoor  a  Christian  place. 
Such  a  resolve,  must  not  pass  away  lightly;  she  knew  it  must  be 
acted  on,  but  how  ?  What  would  her  present  means — one  sovereign 
— effect  ?  Ilcr  fancies,  rich  and  rare,  had  nearly  been  forgotten 
of  late,  but  .she  might  make  them  of  use  in  time — in  time,  and  here 
v,ere  hives  of  children  growing  up  in  heathenism.  Suddenly  an 
idea  struck  her — llichard,  when  at  home,  was  a  very  diligent  teach- 
er in  the  Sunday-school  at  Stoneborough,  though  it  was  a  thankless 
task,  and  he  was  the  only  gentleman  so  engaged,  except  the  two 
Clergymen — the  other  male  teachers  being  a  formal,  grave,  little 
baker,  and  one  or  two  monitors. 

'  llichard,'  said  Ethel,  '  I'll  tell  j'ou  what.  Suppose  we  were  to 
set  up  a  Sunday-school  at  Cocksmoor.  We  could  get  a  room,  and 
walk  there  every  Sunday  afternoon,  and  go  to  Church  in  the  even- 
ing instead.' 

He  was  so  confounded  by  the  suddenness  of  the  project,  that  he 
did  not  answer,  till  she  had  time  for  several  exclamations  and  '  Well, 
Kicliard  ! ' 

'  I  cannot  tell,'  he  said.  '  Going  to  Church  in  the  evening  would 
interfere  with  tea-time — put  out  all  the  house — make  the  evening 
uncomfortable.' 

'  The  evenings  are  horrid  now,  especially  Sundays,'  said  Ethel. 

'  ]3ut  missing  two  more  would  make  them  worse  for  the  others. 

*  I'apa  is  always  w  ith  Margaret,'  said  Ethel.  '  We  are  of  no  use  to 
bint    IJesidcs  those  poor  children — are  not  they  of  more  importance?' 

•  And,  then,  what  is  to  become  of  Stoneborough  school  ?  ' 

'  1  hate  it,'  exclaimed  Ethel ;  then  seeing  llichard  shocked,  and 
finding  she  had  spoken  more  vehemently  than  she  intended — '  It 
is  not  as  bad  for  you  among  the  boys,  but  while  that  committee  goes 
on,  it  is  not  the  least  use  to  try  to  teach  the  girls  right.     Oh !  tho 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN',  57 

fusses  about  the  books,  and  one's  way  of  teaching !  And  fancy  how 
Mrs.  Ledwich  used  us.  You  know  I  went  again  last  Sunday,  for  the 
first  time,  and  there  I  found  that  class  of  Margaret's,  that  she  had 
just  managed  to  get  into  some  degree  of  nice  order,  taken  so  much 
pains  with,  taught  so  well.  She  had  been  telling  me  what  to  hear 
them — there  it  is  given  away  to  Fanny  Anderson,  who  is  no  more  fit 
to  teach  than  that  stick,  and  all  Margaret's  work  will  be  undone.  No 
notice  to  us — ^not  even  the  civility  to  wait  and  see  when  she  gets  better.' 

'  If  we  left  them  now  for  Cocksmoor,  would  it  not  look  as  if  we 
were  afi"ronted  ? ' 

Ethel  was  slightly  taken  aback,  but  only  said,  '  Papa  would  bo 
very  angry  if  he  knew  it.' 

'■  I  am  glad  you  did  not  tell  him,'  said  Richard. 

'  I  thought  it  would  only  tease  him,'  said  Ethel, '  and  that  he  might 
call  it  a  petty  female  squabble  ;  and  when  Margaret  is  well,  it  will 
come  right  if  Fanny  Anderson  has  not  spoilt  the  girls  in  the 
meantime.  It  is  all  Mrs.  Ledwich's  doing.  How  I  did  hate  it 
when  every  one  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and  asked  after 
Margaret  and  papa,  only  just  out  of  curiosity  ! ' 

'  Hush,  hush,  Ethel,  what's  the  use  of  thinking  such  things  ? ' 

A  silence, — then  she  exclaimed, '  But,  indeed,  Hichard,  you  don't 
fancy  that  I  want  to  teach  at  Cocksmoor,  because  it  is  disagreeable 
at  Stoneborough  ?  ' 

'  No,  indeed.' 

The  rendering  of  full  justice  conveyed  in  his  tone,  so  opened 
Ethel's  heart,  that  she  went  on  eagerly  : — '  The  history  of  it  is  this. 
Last  time  we  walked  here,  that  day,  I  said,  and  I  meant  it,  that  I 
would  never  put  it  out  of  my  head;  I  would  go  on  doing  and  striving, 
and  trying,  till  this  place  was  properly  cared  for,  and  has  a  Church 
and  a  Clergyman.  I  believe  it  was  a  vow,  Hichard,  I  do  believe  it 
was, — and  if  one  makes  one,  one  must  keep  it.  There  it  is.  So,  I 
can't  give  money,  I  have  but  one  pound  in  the  world,  but  I  have  time, 
and  I  would  make  that  useful,  if  you  would  help  me.' 

'  I  don't  see  how  '  was  the  answer,  and  there  was  a  fragment  of  a 
smile  on  Kichard's  face,  as  if  it  struck  him  as  a  wild  scheme,  that 
Ethel  should  undertake,  single-handed,  to  evangelize  Cocksmoor. 

It  was  such  a  damper  as  to  be  most  mortifying  to  an  enthusiastic 
gii-l,  and  she  drew  into  herself  in  a  moment. 

They  walked  home  in  silence,  and  when  Richard  warned  her  that 
she  was  not  keeping  her  dress  out  of  the  dirt,  it  sounded  like  a 
sarcasm  on  her  projects,  and,  with  a  slightly  pettish  manner,  she  raised 
the  imfortuuate  skirt,  its  crape  trimmings  greatly  bespattered  with 
ruddy  mud.  Then  recollecting  how  mamma  would  have  shaken  her 
head  at  that  very  thing,  she  regretted  the  temper  she  had  betrayed, 
and  in  a  '  larmoyante  '  voice,  sighed,  '  I  wish  I  could  pick  my  way 
better.  Some  people  have  the  gift,  you  have  hardly  a  splash,  and 
I'm  up  to  the  ancles  in  mud.' 
Vol.  I.— 3 


bS  xri!-:  daisy  cmaix. 

*  It  is  only  taking  care,'  said  Richard ;  '  besides  your  frock  is  so 
long,  and  full.     Can't  you  tuck  it  up,  and  pin  it  ? ' 

'  !My  jiins  always  come  out,'  said  Ethel,  disconsolately,  crumpling 
the  black  fuUl.s  into  one  hand,  'vvliilo  she  hunted  for  a  pin  with  the 
other. 

*  No  wonder,  if  you  stick  them  in  that  way,'  said  llichard.  '  Oh  ! 
you'll  tear  that  crape.  Here,  lot  me  help  you.  Don't  you  see,  make 
it  go  in  and  out,  that  way;  give  it  something  to  pull  against.' 

Ethel  lauglied.  '  That's  the  third  thing  you  have  taught  me — U 
(liread  a  needle,  tie  a  bow,  and  stick  in  a  pin  1  I  never  could  learn 
thost^  things  of  anyone  else;  they  show,  but  don't  explain  the  theory.' 

They  met  Dr.  May  at  tiie  entrance  of  the  town,  very  tired,  and 
saying  he  had  been  a  long  tramp,  all  over  the  place,  and  Mrs.  Hoxton 
had  been  boring  him  with  her  fancies.  As  he  took  Richard's  arm  he 
gave  the  long  heavy  sigh  that  always  fell  so  painfully  on  Ethel's  car. 

'  Dear,  dear,  dear  papa  ! '  thought  she, '  my  work  must  also  be  to  do 
all  I  can  to  comfort  him.' 

Her  reflections  were  broken  off.  Dr.  May  exclaimed,  '  Ethel, 
don't  make  such  a  figure  of  yourself.  Those  muddy  ancles  and 
petticoats  are  not  fit  to  be  seen — there,  new  you  are  sweeping  the 
pavement.  Have  you  no  medium  ?  One  would  think  you  had 
never  worn  a  gown  in  your  life  before !  ' 

Poor  Ethel  stepped  on  before  with  mud-encrusted  heels,  and 
her  father  speaking  sharply  in  the  weariness  and  soreness  of  his 
heart ;  her  draggle-tailed  i^ctticoats  weighing  down  at  once  her  mis- 
sionary projects  at  Cocksmoor,  and  her  tender  visions  of  comforting 
her  widowed  father ;  her  heart  was  full  to  overflowing,  and  where 
was  the  mother  to  hear  her  troubles  ? 

She  opened  the  hall  door,  and  would  have  rushed  up-stairs,  but 
nurse  happened  to  be  crossing  the  hall.  '  IMiss  Ethel !  Miss  Ethel, 
you  arn't  going  up  with  them  boots  on  !  I  do  declare  you  arc  just 
like  one  of  the  boys.     And  your  frock  ! ' 

Ethel  sat  submissively  down  on  the  lowest  step,  and  pulled  off 
her  boots.  As  .she  did  so,  her  father  and  brother  came  in — the  former 
desiring  Richard  to  come  with  him  to  the  study,  and  write  a  note 
for  him.  She  hoped  tiiat  thus  she  might  have  Margaret  to  herself, 
and  hurried  into  her  room.  IMargaret  was  alone,  maids  and  children 
at  tea,  and  Flora  dressing.  The  room  was  in  twilight,  with  the  red 
gleam  of  the  fire  playing  cheerfully  over  it. 

'  Well,  Ethel,  have  you  had  a  pleasant  walk  ?  ' 

'  Yes — no — Oh  Margaret ! '  and  throwing  hcr.sclf  across  the 
bottom  of  the  bed,  she  burst  into  tear.s. 

'  p]thel,  dear,  what  is  the  matter?     Papa — ' 

'  No — no — only  I  draggled  my  frock,  and  Richard  threw  cold 
water.    And  I  am  good  for  nothing  !    Oh  !  if  mamma  was  but  here! ' 

'Darling  Ethel,  dear  Ethel,  I  wish  I  could  comfort  you.    Come  a 


THE   DAISY    CHxVIX,  69 

little  nearer  to  me,  I  can't  reach  jou.  Dear  Ethel,  what  has  gone 
wrong  ? ' 

'  Every  thing,'  said  Ethel.  '  Ino — I'm  too  dii-ty  to  come  on  your 
white  bed  ;  I  forgot,  you  won't  like  it,'  added  she,  in  an  injiu-ed  tone. 

'  You  are  wet,  you  are  cold,  you  are  tired,'  said  Margaret.  '  Stay 
here  and  dress,  don't  go  up  in  the  cold.  There,  sit  by  the  fire,  pull 
off  your  frock  and  stockings,  and  we  will  send  for  the  others.  Let  ma 
see  you  look  comfortable — there.    Now  tell  me  who  threw  cold  water. 

'  It  was  figurative  cold  water,'  said  Ethel,  smiling  for  a  moment. 
'  I  was  only  silly  enough  to  tell  Richard  my  plan,  and  it's  horrid  to 
talk  to  a  person  who  only  thinks  one  high-flying  and  nonsensical — 
and  then  came  the  dirt.' 

'  But  what  was  the  scheme,  Ethel  ?  ' 

'  Cocksmoor,'  said  Ethel,  proceeding  to  unfold  it. 

'  I  wish  we  could,'  said  Margaret.  '  It  would  be  an  excellent 
thing.     But  how  did  Richard  vex  you  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Ethel,  '  only  he  thought  it  would  not  do. 
Perhaps  he  said  right,  but  it  was  coldly,  and  he  smiled.' 

'  He  is  too  sober-minded  for  our  flights,'  said  Margaret.  '  I  know 
the  feeling  of  it,  Ethel  dear ;  but  you  know  if  he  did  see  that  some 
of  your  plans  might  not  answer,  it  is  no  reason  you  should  not  try 
to  do  something  at  once.     You  have  not  told  me  about  the  girl.' 

Ethel  proceeded  to  tell  the  history.  '  There  ! '  said  Margaret, 
cheerfully,  '  there  are  two  Avays  of  helping  Cocksmoor  already. 
Could  you  not  make  some  clothes  for  the  two  grand-children  ?  I 
could  help  you  a  little,  and  then,  if  they  were  well  clothed,  you  might 
get  them  to  come  to  the  Sunday-school.  And  as  to  the  twins,  I  won- 
der what  the  hire  of  a  cart  would  be  to  bring  the  Christening  party  ? 
It  is  just  what  Richard  could  manage.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel ;  '  but  those  are  only  little  isolated  individual 
things ! ' 

'  But  one  must  make  a  beginning.' 

'  Then.  Margaret,  you  think  it  was  a  real  vow  ?  You  don't  think 
it  silly  of  me  ?  '  said  Ethel,  wistfully. 

*  Ethel,  dear,  I  don't  think  dear  mamma  would  say  we  ought  to 
make  vows,  except  what  the  Church  decrees  for  us.  I  don't  think 
she  would  like  the  notion  of  your  considering  yourself  pledged  ;  but 
I  do  think,  that,  after  all  you  have  said  and  felt  about  Cocksmoor, 
and  being  led  there  on  that  day,  it  does  seem  as  if  we  might  be 
Intended  to  make  it  our  especial  charge.' 

'  0  Margaret,  I  am  glad  you  say  so.     You  always  understand,' 

'  But  you  know  we  are  so  young,  that  now  we  have  not  her  to 
judge  for  us,  we  must  only  do  little  things  that  we  are  quite  sure  of, 
or  we  shall  get  wrong.' 

'  That's  not  the  way  great  things  were  done.' 

'  I  don't  know,  Ethel;  I  think  great  things  can't  be  good  unlesj 
they  stand  on  a  sure  foundation  of  little  ones.' 


GO  THE   DAISY   CIIAIX. 

'  Well,  I  believe  Richard  was  right,  and  it  would  not  do  to  bcgic 
on  Sunday,  but  he  was  so  tame ;  and  then  my  frock,  and  the  horrid 
deficiency  in  those  little  neatnesses.' 

'  Pcrliups  that  is  good  for  you  in  one  way ;  you  might  get  very 
high-llyiiig  if  you  had  not  the  discipline  of  those  little  tirosomo 
things ;  correcting  them  will  help  you,  and  keep  your  high  things 
from  being  all  romance.  I  know  dear  mamma  used  to  say  so;  that 
the  trying  to  conc^uer  them  was  a  help  to  you.  0,  here's  Mary ! 
Mary,  will  you  get  Ethel's  dressing  things  y  She  has  come  home 
wet-footed  and  cold,  and  has  been  warming  herself  by  my  fire.' 

Mary  was  happy  to  help,  and  Ethel  was  dressed  and  cheered  by 
the  time  Dr.  May  came  in,  for  a  hurried  visit  and  report  of  his 
doings  ;  Flora  followed  on  her  way  from  her  room.  Then  all  went 
to  tea,  leaving  Margaret  to  have  a  visit  from  the  little  ones  under 
charge  of  nurse.  Two  hours'  stay  with  her,  that  precious  time  when 
she  knew  that  sad  as  the  talk  often  was,  it  was  truly  a  comfort  to 
him.  It  ended  when  ten  o'clock  struck,  and  he  went  down — Mar- 
garet hearing  the  bell,  the  sounds  of  the  assembling  servants,  the 
shutting  of  the  door,  the  stillness  of  praj'cr  time,  the  opening  again, 
the  feet  moving  off  in  different  directions,  then  brothers  and  sisters 
coming  in  to  kiss  her  and  bid  her  good-night,  imrse  and  Flora 
arranging  her  for  the  night.  Flora  coming  to  sleep  in  her  little  bed 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and,  lastly,  her  father's  tender  good-night, 
and  mclaucholy  look  at  her,  and  all  was  quiet,  except  the  low  voices 
and  movements  as  llichard  attended  him  in  his  own  room. 

Margaret  could  think  :  '  Dear,  dear  Ethel,  how  noble  and  high 
she  is  !  But  I  am  afraid  !  It  is  what  people  call  a  difficult,  danger- 
ous age,  and  the  grander  she  is,  the  greater  danger  of  not  managing 
her  rightly.  If  those  high  jmrposes  should  run  only  into  romance 
like  mine,  or  grow  out  into  eccentricities  and  unfemininesscs,  what  a 
grievous  pity  it  would  be  !  And  I,  so  little  older,  so  much  less 
clever,  with  just  sympathy  enough  not  to  be  a  wise  restraint — lam 
the  person  who  has  the  responsibility,  and  oh,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Mamma  trusted  to  me  to  be  a  mother  to  them,  pApa  looks  to  me, 
and  I  so  unlit,  besides  this  helplessness.  But  God  sent  it,  and  put 
me  in  my  place.  He  made  me  lie  here,  and  will  raise  me  up  if  it  \s 
good,  so  I  trust  He  will  help  me  with  my  sisters.' 

'  Grant  me  to  have  a  right  judgment  in  all  things,  and  evermore 
to  rejoice  in  Thy  holy  comfort.' 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  61 


CHAPTER    YII. 

'  Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help.' 

■WORDSWOnTIt. 

ErnELDEED  awoke  long  before  time  for  getting  up,  and  lay  pondering 
over  her  visions.  Margaret  had  sympathized,  and  therefore  they 
did  not  seem  entirely  aerial.  To  earn  money  by  writing  was  her 
favourite  plan,  and  she  called  her  various  romances  in  turn  before  her 
memory,  to  judge  which  might  be  brought  down  to  sober  pen  and 
ink.  She  considered  till  it  became  not  too  unreasonably  early  to 
get  up.  It  was  dark,  but  there  was  a  little  light  close  tc  the  win- 
dow :  she  had  no  writing-paper,  but  she  would  interline  her  old  ex- 
ercise-book. Down  she  ran,  and  crouching  in  the  school-room  win- 
dow-seat, she  wrote  on  in  a  trance  of  eager  composition,  till  Norman 
called  her,  as  he  went  to  school,  to  help  him  to  find  a  book. 

This  done,  she  went  up  to  visit  Margaret,  to  tell  her  the  story,  and 
consult  her.  But  this  was  not  so  easy.  She  found  Margaret  with 
little  Daisy  Ij'ing  by  her,  and  Tom  sitting  by  the  fire  over  his  Latin. 

'  0  Ethel,  good  morning,  dear  !  you  are  come  just  in  time.' 

'  To  take  baby  ?  '  said  Ethel  as  the  child  was  fretting  a  little. 

'  Yes,  thank  you,  she  has  been  very  good,  but  she  was  tired  of 
lying  here,  and  I  can't  move  her  about,'  said  Margaret. 

'  0  Margaret,  I  have  such  a  plan,'  said  Ethel,  as  she  walked  about 
with  little  Gertrude ;  but  Tom  interrupted. 

'  Margaret,  will  you  see  if  I  can  say  my  lesson?'  and  the  thumbed 
Latin  grammar  came  across  her  just  as  Dr.  May's  door  opened,  and 
he  came  in  exclaiming,  '  Latin  grammar  !  Margaret,  this  is  really 
too  much  for  you.  Good  morning,  my  dears.  Ha !  Tommy,  take 
your  book  away,  my  boy.  You  must  not  inflict  that  on  sister  now 
There's  ycur  regular  master,  Eichard,  in  my  room,  if  it  is  fit  for  his 
ears  yet.     What,  the  little  one  here  too  ?  ' 

'  How  is  your  arm,  papa  ?  '  said  Margaret.  '  Did  it  keep  you 
awake  ? ' 

'  Not  long — it  set  me  dreaming  though,  and  a  very  romantic 
dream  it  was,  worthy  of  Ethel  herself.' 

'  What  was  it,  papa  ?  ' 

*  0,  it  was  an  odd  thing,  joining  on  strangely  enough  with  one  ] 
had  three  or  four-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man, 
hearing  lectures  at  Edinburgh,  and  courting' — he  stopped,  and  felt 
Margaret's  pulse,  asked  her  a  few  questions,  and  talked  to  the  baby 
Ethel  longed  to  hear  his  dream,  but  thought  he  would  not  like  to  go 
on;  however,  he  did  presently. 

'  The  old  dream  was  the  night  after  a  pic-nic  on  Arthur's  Seat 
with  the  Mackenzies ;  Mamma  and  Aunt  Flora  were  there.  'Twas 
a  regular  boy's  dream,  a  tournament  or  something  of  that  nature, 


02  T.li:    DAISY    CHAIN. 

where  I  was  victor,  the  quecu — you  know  who  she  was — ^giving  mo 
her  token — a  Daisy  Chain.' 

'  That  is  why  you  like  to  call  U3  your  Daisy  Chain,'  said  Ethel. 

'  Did  you  write  it  in  verse  ?  '  said  Margaret.  '  I  think  I  once 
eaw  some  verses  like  it  in  her  desk.' 

'  I  was  in  love,  and  thrce-and-twenty,'  said  the  Doctor,  looking 
drolly  f;"Liiity  in  the  midst  of  his  sadness.  '  Aye,  those  fixed  it  in 
my  memory,  perhaps  my  fancy  made  it  more  distinct  than  it  really 
was.  An  evening  or  two  ago,  I  met  with  them,  and  that  stirred  it 
up,  I  suppose.  Last  night  came  the  tournament  again,  but  it  was 
the  mrlee,  a  sense  of  beuig  crushed  down,  suflfocatcd  by  the  throng 
of  armed  knights  and  horses — pain  and  wounds — and  I  looked  in 
vain  through  the  opposing  overwhelming  host  for  my — my  jMaggie. 
"Well,  I  got  the  worst  of  it,  my  sword  arm  was  broken — I  foil,  was 
stifled — crushed — in  misery — all  I  could  do  was  to  grasp  my  token 
— my  Daisy  Chain,'  and  he  pressed  Margaret's  hand  as  he  said  so. 
'  And,  behold,  the  tumult  and  despair  were  passed.  I  lay  on  the 
grass  in  the  cloisters,  and  the  Daisy  Chain  hung  from  the  sky,  and 
was  drawing  me  upwards.  There^— it  is  a  queer  dream  for  a  sober 
old  country  Doctor.  I  don't  know  why  I  told  you,  don't  tell  any 
one  again.' 

And  he  walked  away,  muttering,  '  For  he  told  me  his  dreams, 
talked  of  eating  and  drinkmg,'  leaving  Margaret  with  her  eyes  full 
of  tears,  and  Ethel  vehemently  caressing  the  baby. 

'  How  beautiful ! '  said  Ethel. 

'  It  has  been  a  comfort  to  him,  I  am  sure,'  said  Margaret. 

*  You  don't  tliink  it  ominous,'  said  Ethel,  with  a  slight  tremulous 
voice. 

'  More  soothing  than  any  thing  else.  It  is  what  wo  all  feel,  is 
it  not  ?  that  this  little  daisy  bud  is  the  link  between  us  and  heaven  ?  ' 

*  But  about  him.  He  was  victor  at  first — vanquished  the  next 
time  ? ' 

'  I  think  —if  it  is  to  have  an  interpretation,  though  I  am  not 
riiirc  we  ought  to  tike  it  so  seriously,  it  would  only  mean  that  in 
younger  days,  peopio  care  for  victory  and  distinction  in  this  world, 
like  Norman,  or  as  papa  most  likely  did  then ;  but,  as  they  grow 
older,  they  care  less,  and  others  pass  them,  and  they  know  it  docs 
not  signify,  for  in  our  race  all  may  win.' 

'  But  he  has  a  great  name.  How  many  people  come  from  a 
distance  to  consult  him  !  he  is  looked  upon,  too,  in  other  ways  !  ho 
can  do  anything  with  the  corporation.' 

Margaret  smiled.  '  All  this  does  not  sound  grand — it  is  not  as 
if  he  had  set  up  in  London.' 

'  Oh  dear,  I  am  so  glad  he  did  not.' 

'  Shall  I  tell  you  what  mamma  told  mc  he  said  about  it,  when 
uncle  Mackenzie  said  he  ought  ?     He  answered,  that  he  thought 


THE    DAISY    CHAIX.  63 

health  and  happy  home  attachments,  -were  a  better  provision  for  us 
to  set  out  in  life  with  than  thousands.' 

'  I  am  sure  he  was  right !  '  said  Ethel,  earnestly.  '  Then  you 
don't  think  the  dream  meant  being  beaten,  only  that  our  best  things 
are  not  gained  by  successes  in  this  world  ?  ' 

'  Don't  go  and  let  it  dwell  on  your  mind  as  a  vision,'  said  Mar- 
garet.    '  I  think  dear  mamma  would  call  that  silly.' 

An  interruption  occurred,  and  Ethel  had  to  go  down  to  breakfast 
with  a  mind  floating  between  romance,  sorrow,  and  high  aspirations^ 
very  unlike  the  actual  world  she  had  to  live  in.  First,  there  was 
a  sick  man  walking  into  the  study,  and  her  father,  laying  down  his 
letters,  saying,  'I  must  despatch  him  lefore  prayers,  I  suppose. 
I've  a  great  mind  to  say  I  never  will  see  any  one  who  wont  keep  to 
my  days.' 

'  I  can't  imagine  why  they  don't,  said  Flora,  as  he  went.  '  lie 
is  always  saying  so,  but  never  acting  on  it.  If  he  would  once  turn 
one  awa}',  the  rest  would  mind.' 

Richard  went  on  in  silence,  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

'  There's  another  ring,'  said  Mary. 

'  Yes,  he  is  caught  now,  they'll  go  on  in  a  stream.  I  shall  not 
keep  Margaret  waiting  for  her  breakfast,  I  shall  take  it  up.' 

The  morning  was  tiresome ;  though  Dr.  May  had  two  regular 
days  for  seeing  poor  people  at  his  house,  he  was  too  good-natured 
to  keep  strictly  to  them,  and  this  day,  as  Flora  had  predicted,  there 
Avas  a  procession  of  them  not  soon  got  rid  of,  even  by  his  rapid 
queries  and  the  talismanic  figures  made  by  his  left  hand  on  scraps 
of  papf^r,  with  which  he  sent  them  oif  to  the  infirmary.  Ethel 
tried  to  read  ;  the  children  lingered  about ;  it  was  a  trial  of  temper 
to  all  but  Tom,  who  obtained  Richard's  attention  to  his  lessons. 
He  liked  to  say  them  to  his  brother,  and  this  was  an  incentive  to 
learn  them  c{uickly,  that  none  might  remain  for  Miss  Winter  when 
Richard  went  out  for  his  father.  If  mamma  had  been  there,  she 
Vi'ould  have  had  prayers ;  but  now  no  one  had  authority  enough, 
though  they  did  at  last  even  finish  breakfast.  Just  as  the  gig  came 
to  the  door.  Dr.  May  dismissed  his  last  patient,  rang  the  bell  in 
haste,  and  as  soon  as  prayers  were  ever,  declared  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment, and  had  no  time  to  eat.  There  was  a  general  outcry,  that 
it  was  bad  enough  when  he  was  well,  and  now  he  must  not  take 
liberties;  Flora  made  him  drink  some  tea;  and  Richard  placed 
morsels  in  his  way,  while  he  read  his  letters.  He  ran  up  for  a  final 
look  at  Margaret,  almost  upset  the  staid  Miss  Winter  as  he  ran 
down  again,  called  Richard  to  take  the  reins,  and  was  off. 

It  was  French  day,  always  a  trial  to  Ethel.  M.  Ballompre, 
the  master,  knew  what  was  good  and  bad  French,  but  could  not 
render  a  reason,  and  Ethel  being  versed  in  the  principles  of 
grammar,  from  her  Latin  studies,  chose  to  know  the  Avhy  and 
wherefore  of  his  corrections — she  did  not  like  to  see  her  pages  do- 


64  Tilt;    DAISY    CHAIN. 

faced,  and  have  no  security  against  future  errors ;  ■svliilc  he  thought 
her  a  trouhlcsome  pupil,  and  was  put  out  l)y  lier  questions.  Thej 
wrangled.  Miss  Winter  was  displeased,  and  Ethel  felt  injured. 

Mary's  inability  to  catch  the  pronunciation,  and  her  hopeless  dull 
look  when  she  found  that  cxur  must  not  be  pronounced  cour,  nor 
cur,  but  something  between,  to  which  her  rosy  English  lips  could 
never  come — all  this  did  not  tease  M.  Eallompre,  for  he  was  used  to  it 

Ilis  mark  for  Ethel's  lesson  was  ^  dc  V  humeur.^ 

'  I  am  sorry,'  said  Miss  Winter,  when  he  was  gone.  '  I  thought 
you  had  outgrown  that  habit  of  disputing  over  every  phrase.' 

'  I  can't  tell  how  a  language  is  to  be  learnt  without  knowing  the 
rea.sons  of  one's  mistakes,'  said  Ethel. 

'  That  is  what  you  always  say,  my  dear.  It  is  of  no  use  to 
renew  it  all,  but  I  wish  you  would  control  yourself.  Now,  Mary, 
call  Blanche,  and  you  and  Ethel  take  your  arithmetic.' 

So  Flora  went  to  read  to  Margaret,  while  Blanche  went  lightly 
and  playfully  through  her  easy  lessons,  and  Mary  floundered  pitc- 
ously  over  the  difEculties  of  Compound  Long  Division.  Ethel's 
mind  was  in  too  irritated  and  tumultuous  a  state  for  her  to  derive 
her  usual  solace  from  Cube  Hoot.  Ilcr  sum  was  wrong,  and  she 
wanted  to  work  it  right,  but  Miss  Winter,  who  had  little  liking  foi 
the  higher  branches  of  arithmetic,  said  she  had  spent  time  enough 
over  it,  and  summoned  her  to  an  examination  such  as  the  governess 
was  very  fond  of  and  often  practised.  Ethel  thought  it  useless,  and 
was  teased  by  it ;  and  though  her  answers  were  chiefly  correct,  they 
were  giver,  in  an  irritated  tone.     It  was  of  this  kind : — 

What  is  the  date  of  the  inventign  of  paper  ? 
What  is  the  latitude  and  lonfptudc  of  Otahcite  ? 
What  are  the  component  parts  of  bra.<s  ? 
Whence  is  cochineal  imported  ? 

When  this  was  over,  Ethel  had  to  fetch  her  mending-basket,  and 
Mary  her  book  of  selections  ;  -the  piece  for  to-day's  lesson  was  the 
quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius  ;  and  ^Mary's  dull  droning  tone  was  a 
trial  to  her  ears ;  she  presently  exclaimed,  '  0  Mary,  don't  mui-- 
dcr  it ! ' 

'  Murder  what  ?  '  said  ^lary,  opening  wide  her  light  blue  cj'cs. 

'  That  use  of  exaggerated  language,' — began  Miss  Winter. 

'  I've  heard  I'apa  say  it,'  said  Ethel,  only  wanting  to  silence  Miss 
^^  inter.    In  a  cooler  moment,  i^hc  would  not  have  used  the  argument. 

*  All  that  a  gentleman  may  say,  may  not  be  a  precedent  for  a 
young  lady;  but  you  are  interrupting  Mary.' 

'  Only  let  me  show  her.     I  can't  bear  to  hear  her,  listen,  Mary. 

'  "  What  shall  one  of  us 

That  struck  the  foremost  "  ' — 

*  That  is  declaiming,'  said  Mi.ss  Winter.  '  It  is  not  what  wc 
wish  for  in  a  lady.     You  arc  neglecting  your  work  and  interfering.' 


THE   DAISY    CIIAIX.  65 

Ethel  made  a  fretful  contortion,  and  obeyed.  So  it  went  on  all 
tlie  morning,  Ethel's  eagerness  checked  by  Miss  "Winter's  dry  man 
ner,  producing  pettishness,  till  Ethel,  in  a  state  between  self-reproach 
and  a  sense  of  injustice,  went  up  to  prepare  for  dinner,  and  to  risil 
Margaret  on  the  way. 

She  found  her  sister  picking  a  merino  frock  to  pieces.  '  See  here,' 
she  said  eagerly,  '  I  thought  you  would  like  to  make  up  this  old 
frock  for  one  of  the  Cocksmoor  children  ;  but  what  is  the  matter  ?  ' 
as  Ethel  did  not  show  the  lively  interest  that  she  expected. 

'  0  nothinw,  only  Miss  Winter  is  so  tiresome.' 

'  What  was  it  ?  ' 

'  Every  thing,  it  was  all  horrid.  I  was  cross  I  know,  but  she 
and  M.  Ballompre  made  me  so ; '  and  Ethel  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
narration  of  her  grievances,  when  Norman  came  in.  The  school 
was  half  a  mile  off,  but  he  had  not  once  failed  to  come  home,  in  the 
interval  allowed  for  play  after  dinner,  to  inquire  for  his  sister. 

'  Well,  Norman,  you  are  out  of  breath,  sit  down  and  rest. 
What  is  doing  at  school  ?  are  you  dux  of  your  class  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  the  boy,  wearily. 

'  What  mark  for  the  verses  ?  '  said  Ethel. 

'  Quam  hene. 

'  Not  optime  ? ' 

'  No,  they  were  iame^  Dr.  Hoxton  said. 

'  What  is  Harry  doing  ?  '  said  Margaret. 

'  He  is  fourth  in  his  form.     I  left  him  at  football.' 

'  Dinner  ! '  said  Flora  at  the  door.  '  What  will  you  have,  Mar- 
garet ? ' 

'  I'll  fetch  it,'  said  Norman,  who  considered  it  his  privilege  to 
wait  on  Margaret  at  dinner.  When  he  had  brought  the  tray,  he 
stood  leaning  against  the  bed-post,  musing.  Suddenly,  there  was 
a  considerable  clatter  of  fire-irons,  and  his  violent  start  surprised 
Margaret. 

'  Ethel  has  been  poking  the  fire,'  she  said,  as  if  no  more  was  needed 
to  account  for  their  insecurity.  Norman  put  them  up  again,  but  a 
ringing  sound  betrayed  that  it  was  not  with  a  firm  touch,  and  when,  a 
minute  after,  he  came  to  take  her  plate,  she  saw  that  he  was  trying 
with  effort  to  steady  his  hand. 

'  Norman,  dear,  are  you  sure  you  are  well  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  very  well,'  said  he,  as  if  vexed  that  she  had  taken  any  notice. 

'  You  had  better  not  come  racing  home.  I'm  not  worth  inquiries 
aow,  I  am  so  much  better,'  said  she  smiling. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  this  was  not  consenting  silence. 

*  I  don't  like  you  to  lose  your  foot-ball,'  she  pioceeded. 

'  I  could  not — '  and  he  stopped  short. 

'  It  would  be  much  better  for  you,'  said  she,  looking  up  in  his  face 
with  anxious  affectionate  eyes,  but  he  shunned  her  glance  and  walked 
away  with  her  plate. 


CO  Tin:    DAISY    CHAIN. 

Flora  had  been  in  such  closeattendance  upon  Margaret,  that  slic 
needed  some  cheerful  vralks,  and  though  she  had  some  doubts  how 
affairs  at  home  would  go  on  without  her,  she  was  overruled,  and  seni 
on  a  long  expedition  with  Miss  Winter  and  Mary,  while  Ethel  re- 
mained with  Margaret. 

The  only  delay  before  setting  out,  was  that  nurse  came  in,  saying, 
'  If  you  please,  Miss  Margaret,  there  is  a  girl  come  to  see  about  tlio 
place.' 

The  sisters  looked  at  each  other  and  .smiled,  while  Margaret  asked 
whence  she  came,  and  who  she  was. 

'  Her  name  is  Taylor,  and  she  comes  from  Cocksmoor,  but  she  is  a 
nice,  tidy,  strong-looking  girl,  and  she  says  she  has  been  used  to  chil- 
dren.' 

Nurse  had  fallen  into  a  trap  most  comfortably,  and  seemed  bent 
upon  taking  this  girl  as  a  choice  of  her  own.  She  wished  to  know  if 
Miss  Margaret  would  like  to  see  her. 

'  If  you  please,  nurse,  but  if  you  think  she  will  do,  that  is  enough.' 

'  Yes,  Miss,  but  you  should  look  to  them  things  yourself.  If  you 
please,  I'll  bring  her  up.'     So  nurse  departed. 

'  Charming ! '  cried  Ethel, '  that's  your  capital  management, Flora; 
Nurse  thinks  she  has  done  it  all  herself.' 

'  She  is  your  charge  though,'  said  Flora, '  coming  from  your  own 
beloved  Cocksmoor.' 

Lucy  Taylor  came  in,  looking  very  nice,  and  very  shy,  curtseying 
low,  in  extreme  awe  of  the  pale  lady  in  bed.  Margaret  was  much 
pleased  with  her,  and  there  was  no  more  to  be  done  but  settle  that  she 
should  come  on  Saturday,  and  to  let  nurse  take  her  into  the  town  to 
invest  her  with  the  universal  blackness  of  the  household,  where  the 
two  Margarets  were  the  only  white  things. 

This  arranged,  and  the  walking  party  set  forth,  Ethel  sat  down  by 
her  sister's  bed,  and  began  to  assist  in  unpicking  the  merino,  telling 
Margaret  how  much  obliged  she  was  to  her  for  thinking  of  it,  and  how 
grieved  at  having  been  so  ungrateful  in  the  morning.  She  was  very 
happy  over  her  contrivances,  cutting  out  under  her  sister's  superinten- 
dence. She  had  forgotten  the  morning's  annoyance,  till  Margaret  said, 
'  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  about  Miss  Winter,  and  really 
I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done.' 

'  0  Jlarga»-et,  I  did  not  mean  to  worry  you,'  said  Ethel,  sorry  to 
.see  her  look  rncasy. 

'  I  like  you  to  tell  me  every  thing,  dear  Ethel ;  but  I  don't  see 
clearly  the  best  course.     We  must  go  on  with  Mi.ss  AVinter.' 

*  Of  course,'  said  Ethel,  shocked  at  her  murmurs  having  even  sug- 
gcstcd  the  possibility  of  a  cliange,  and  having,  as  well  as  all  the  others, 
a  great  respect  and  affection  for  her  governess. 

'  We  could  not  get  on  without  her,  even  if  I  were  well,'  continued 
Margaret ;  '  and  dear  raanmia  had  such  perfect  trust  in  her,  and  we  all 
know  and  love  her  so  well — it  would  make  us  put  up  with  a  great  deal.' 


THE   DAISY    CIIAIK.  67 

*  It  is  all  my  own  foult,'  said  Ethel,  only  anxious  to  make  amends 
to  Miss  Winter.     '  I  wish  you  would  not  say  any  thing  about  it.' 

'  Yes,  it  does  seem  wrong  even  to  think  of  it,'  said  Margaret, '  when 
she  has  been  so  very  kind.  It  is  a  blessing  to  have  any  one  to  whom 
Mary  and  Blanche  may  so  entirely  be  trusted.     But  for  you — ' 

'  It  is  my  own  fault,'  repeated  Ethel. 

'  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  all  your  own  fault,'  said  Margaret, '  and 
that  is  the  difficulty.  I  know  dear  mamma  thought  Miss  Winter  an 
excellent  governess  for  the  little  ones,  but  hardly  up  to  you,  and  she 
saw  that  you  worried  and  fidgetted  each  other,  so,  you  know,  she 
used  to  keep  the  teaching  of  you  a  good  deal  in  her  own  hands.' 

I  did  not  know  that  was  the  reason,'  said  Ethel,  overpowered  by 
the  recollection  of  the  happy  morning's  work  she  had  often  done  in 
that  very  room,  when  her  mother  had  not  been  equal  to  the  bustle  of 
the  whole  school-room.  That  watchful,  protecting,  guarding,  mother's 
love,  a  shadow  of  Providence,  had  been  round  them  so  constantly  on 
every  side,  that  they  had  been  hardly  conscious  of  it  till  it  was  lost  to 
them. 

'  Was  it  not  like  her  ?  '  said  Margaret,  '  but  now,  my  poor  Ethel,  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  right  by  you  or  by  3Iiss  Winter,  to  take  you 
out  of  the  school-room.     I  think  it  would  grieve  her.' 

'  I  would  not  do  that  for  the  world.' 

'  Especially  after  all  her  kind  nursing  of  me,  and  even,  with  more 
reason,  it  would  not  be  becoming  in  us  to  make  changes.  Besides, 
King  Etheldred,'  said  Margaret,  smiling, '  we  all  know  you  are  a  little 
bit  of  a  sloven,  and,  as  nurse  says,  some  one  must  be  always  after  you, 
and  do  you  know  ?  even  if  I  were  well,  I  had  rather  it  was  Miss  Win- 
ter than  me.' 

'  0  no,  you  would  not  be  formal  and  precise — you  would  not  make 
me  cross.' 

'  Perhaps  you  might  make  me  so,'  said  Margaret, '  or  I  should  let 
you  alone,  and  Jeave  you  a  slattern.  We  should  both  hate  it  so  !  No, 
don't  make  me  your  mistress,  Ethel  dear, — let  me  be  your  sister  and 
play-fellow  still,  as  well  as  I  can.' 

'  You  are,  you  are.    I  don't  care  half  so  much  when  I  have  got  you. 

'  And  will  you  try  to  bear  with  her,  and  remember  it  is  right  in 
the  main,  though  it  is  troublesome  ?  ' 

'  That  I  will.  I  won't  plague  you  again.  I  know  it  is  bad  for 
you,  you  look  tired.' 

'  Pray  don't  leave  off  telling  me,'  said  Margaret — '  it  is  just  what  I 
wish  on  my  own  account,  and  I  know  it  is  comibrtable  to  have  a  good 
grumble.' 

'  If  it  does  not  hurt  you,  but  I  am  sure  you  are  not  easy  now— 
are  you  ? ' 

'  Only  my  back,'  said  Margaret.  '  I  have  been  sitting  up  longer 
than  usual,  and  it  is  tired.    Will  you  call  nurse  to  lay  me  flat  again  ?  ' 

The  nursery  was  deserted — all  were  out,  and  Ethel  came  back  in 


6S  THE   DAISY   CJIAIX. 

trepidation  at  the  notion  of  having  to  do  it  herself,  though  she  knew  it 
was  only  to  put  one  arm  to  support  her  sister,  while,  with  the  other, 
she  removed  the  pillows ;  but  Ethel  was  conscious  of  her  own  awk 
wardness  and  want  of  observation,  nor  had  Margaret  entire  trust  in 
ber.  Still  she  was  too  much  fatigued  to  wait,  so  Ethel  was  obliged  to 
do  her  best.  She  was  careful  and  frightened,  and  therefore  slow  and 
unsteady.  She  trusted  that  all  was  right,  and  Margaret  tried  to  be- 
lieve so,  though  still  uneasy. 

Ethel  began  to  read  to  her,  and  Dr.  May  came  home.  She  looked  up 
smilin;:,  and  asked  where  he  had  been,  but  it  was  vain  to  try  to  keep 
him  from  reading  her  face,  lie  saw  in  an  instant  that  something  was 
amiss,  and  drew  from  her  a  confession  that  her  back  was  aching  a  little. 
lie  knew  she  might  have  said  a  great  deal — she  was  not  in  a  comfort- 
able position — she  must  be  moved.  She  shook  her  head — she  had 
rather  wait — there  was  a  dread  of  being  again  lifted  by  Ethel,  that  she 
could  not  entirely  hide.  Ethel  was  distressed.  Dr.  May  was  angry, 
and,  no  wonder,  when  he  saw  Margaret  suft'er,  felt  his  own  inability 
to  help,  missed  her  who  had  been  wont  to  take  all  care  from  his  hands, 
and  was  vexed  to  sec  a  tall  strong  girl  of  fifteen,  with  the  full  use  of 
both  arms,  and  plenty  of  sense,  incapable  of  giving  any  assistance,  and 
only  doing  harm  by  trying. 

'  It  is  of  no  use,'  said  he.  'Ethel  will  give  no  attention  to  any  thing 
but  her  books  !  I've  a  great  mind  to  put  an  end  to  all  the  Latin  and 
Greek  !  She  cares  for  nothing  else.' 

Ethel  could  little  brook  injustice,  and  much  as  she  was  grieving, 
she  exclaimed, '  Papa,  papa,  1  do  care — now  don't  I,  Margaret  ?  1  did 
my  best  1 ' 

'  Don't  talk  nonsense.  Your  best,  indeed  !  If  you  had  taken  the 
most  moderate  care — ' 

'  I  believe  Ethel  took  rather  too  much  care,'  said  Margaret,  much 
more  harassed  by  the  scolding  than  by  the  pain.  '  It  will  be  all  right 
presently.     Never  mind,  dear  Papa.'  ^ 

13ut  he  was  not  only  grieved  for  the  present,  but  anxious  for  the 
future ;  and,  though  he  knew  it  was  bad  for  Margaret  to  manifest  hia 
displeasure,  he  could  notrestrain  it,  and  continued  to  blame  Ethel  witli 
enough  of  injustice  to  set  her  on  vindication,  whereupon  he  silenced 
lier,  by  telling  her  she  was  making  it  worse  by  self-justification  when 
Margaret  ought  to  be  quiet.  Margaret  tried  to  talk  of  other  things, 
but  was  in  too  much  discomfort  to  exert  herself  enough  to  divert  his 
attention. 

At  last  Flora  returned,  and  saw  in  an  instant  what  was  wanted. 
Margaret  was  settled  in  the  right  posture,  but  tlie  i)ain  would  not  im- 
mediately depart,  and  Dr.  May  soon  found  out  that  she  had  a  head- 
ache, of  which  lie  knew  he  was  at  least  as  guilty  as  Etheldred  could  be. 

Nothing  could  be  done  but  keep  her  quiet,  and  Ethel  went  away 
to  be  miserable;  Flora  tried  to  comfort  her  by  saying  it  was  unfor- 
tunate, but  no  doubt  there  was  a  knack,  and  every  one  could  not  man 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN  GO 

age  those  things ;  Margaret  was  easier  now,  and  as  to  Papa's  anger, 
he  did  not  always  mean  all  he  said. 

But  consolation  came  at  bed-time  ;  Margaret  received  her  with 
open  arms  when  she  went  to  wish  her  good-night.  '  My  poor  Ethel,' 
she  said,  holding  her  close,  '  I  am  sorry  I  have  made  such  a  fuss.' 

'  Oh,  you  did  not,  it  was  too  bad  of  me — I  am  grieved  ;  are  you 
C{uite  comfortable  now  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  quite,  only  a  little  head-ache,  which  I  shall  sleep  off.  It  has 
been  so  nice  and  quiet.  Papa  took  up  George  Herbert,  and  has  been 
reading  me  choice  bits.  I  don't  think  I  have  enjoyed  any  thing  so 
much  since  I  have  been  ill.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  that,  but  I  have  been  unhappy  all  the  evening,  I 
wish  I  knew  what  to  do.     I  am  out  of  heart  about  every  thing  ! ' 

'  Only  try  to  mind  and  heed,  and  you  will  learn.     It  will  be  a  step 

if  you  will  only  put  your  shoes  side  by  side  when  you  take  them  off.' 

Ethel  smiled  and  sighed,  and  Margaret  whispered,  '  Don't  grieve 

about  me,  but  put  your  clever  head  to  rule  your  hands,  and  you 

will  do  for  home  and  Cocksmoor  too.     Good-night,  dearest.' 

'  I've  vexed  papa,'  sighed  Ethel — and  just  then  he  came  into 
the  room. 

'  Papa,'  said  Margaret,  '  here's  poor  Ethel,  not  half  recovered 
from  her  troubles.' 

He  was  now  at  ease  about  Margaret,  and  knew  he  had  been 
harsh  to  another  of  his  motherless  girls. 

'  Ah  !  we  must  send  her  to  the  infant-school,  to  learn  "  this  is 
my  right  hand,  and  this  is  my  left,"  '  said  he,  in  his  half-gay,  half- 
sad  manner. 

'  I  was  very  stupid,'  said  Ethel. 

'  Poor  child  ! '  said  her  papa,  '  she  is  worse  off  than  I  am.     If 
I  have  but  one  hand  left,  she  has  two  left-hands.' 
'  I  do  mean  to  try,  papa.' 

'  Yes,  you  must,  Ethel.  I  believe  I  was  hasty  with  you,  my 
poor  girl.  I  was  vexed,  and  we  have  no  one  to  smooth  us  down. 
I  am  sorry,  my  dear,  but  you  must  bear  with  me,  for  I  never  learnt 
her  ways  with  you  when  I  might.  We  will  try  to  have  mire  pa- 
tience with  each  other.' 

What  could  Ethel  do  but  hang  round  his  neck  and  cry,  till  ho 
said,  but  tenderly,  that  they  had  given  Margaret  quite  disturbance 
enough  to-day,  and  sent  her  to  bed,  vowing  to  watch  each  littla 
sctior,  lest  rhe  should  again  give  pain  to  such  a  father  and  sister. 


70  Till':   DAISY   CHAIN. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"Tis  not  enough  tliat  Greek  or  Roinnii  page 
At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thouglils  engage, 
ICvcn  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend 
'I'o  warn  and  teach  him  sal'i-ly  to  unhcnd, 
O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 
■\Vutcli  his  emotions,  and  control  their  tide.' 

CoWPEC 

TuE  misfortunes  of  tliat  day  disheartened  and  disconceited  Ethel- 
dred.  To  do  mischief  where  she  most  wished  to  do  good,  to  grieve 
where  she  longed  to  comfort,  seemed  to  be  her  fate;  it  was  vain  to 
attempt  any  thing  for  any  one's  good,  while  all  her  warm  feelings  and 
high  aspirations  were  thwarted  by  the  awkward  ungahily  hands, 
and  heedless  cj^cs  that  Nature  had  given  her.  Nor  did  the  follow- 
ing day,  Saturday,  do  much  for  her  comfort,  by  giving  her  the 
company  of  her  brothers.  That  it  was  Norman's  sixteenth  birth- 
day seemed  only  to  make  it  worse.  Their  father  Lad  apparently 
forgotten  it,  and  Norman  stopped  Blanche,  when  she  was  going  to 
put  him  in  mind  of  it ;  stopped  her  by  such  a  look  as  the  child 
never  forgot,  tliough  there  was  no  anger  in  it.  In  reply  to  Ethel's 
inquiry  wliat  he  was  going  to  do  that  morning,  he  gave  a  yawn  and 
stretch,  and  said,  dejectedly,  that  he  had  got  some  Euripides  to 
look  over,  and  some  verses  to  finish. 

'  I  am  sorry  ;  this  is  the  first  time  you  ever  have  not  managed 
so  as  to  make  a  real  holiday  of  j'our  Saturday  ! ' 

'  I  could  not  help  it,  and  there's  nothing  to  do,'  said  Norman, 
wearily, 

'  I  promised  to  go  and  read  to  Margaret,  while  Flora  does  her 
music,'  said  ]"]thel ;  '  I  shall  come  after  that  and  do  my  Latin  and 
Greek  with  you.' 

Margaret  would  not  keep  her  long,  saying  she  liked  her  to  be 
with  Norman,  but  she  found  him  with  his  head  sunk  on  his  open 
book,  fast  asleep.  At  dinner-time,  Harry  and  Tom,  rushing  in, 
awoke  him  with  a  violent  start. 

'Halloo!  Norman,  that  was  a  jump!'  said  Harry,  as  his  bro- 
ther stretched  and  pinched  himself  '  You'll  jump  out  of  your  skin 
Eomc  of  these  days,  if  you  don't  take  care  I  ' 

'  It's  enough  to  startle  any  one  to  be  waked  up  with  such  a 
noise,'  said  Ethel. 

'  Then  he  ought  to  sleep  at  proper  times,'  said  Harry,  '  and  not 
bo  waking  me  uj)  with  tumbling  about,  and  hallooing  out,  and  taik- 
ing  in  Lis  sleep  half  the  night.' 

'  Talking  in  Lis  sleep ;  why,  just  now,  you  said  lie  did  not  sleep, 
Bald  Ethel. 

•  Harry  knows  nothing  about  it,'  said  Norman. 

'  Don't  1  ?  well,  I  only  kr!c>v.',  if  you  slept  in  soIkhiI,  and  were  a 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  Yl 

junior,  you  would  get  a  proper  good  licking  for  going  on  as  you  do 
at  niglit.' 

'  And  I  tliink  you  might  chance  to  get  a  proper  good  licking 
for  not  holding  your  tongue,'  said  Norman,  which  hint  reduced 
Harry  to  silence. 

Dr.  May  was  not  come  home ;  he  had  gone  with  Richard  far 
into  the  country,  and  was  to  return  to  tea.  He  was  thought  to  be 
desirous  of  avoiding  the  family  dinners  that  used  to  be  so  delight- 
ful. Harry  was  impatient  to  depart,  and  when  Mary  and  Tom  ran 
after  him,  he  ordered  them  back. 

'  \Yhere  can  he  be  going  ? '  said  Mary,  as  she  looked  wistfully 
after  him. 

'  I  know,'  said  Tom. 
<  Where  ?     Do  tell  me.' 

'  Only  don't  tell  papa.  I  went  down  with  him  to  the  play-ground 
this  morning,  and  there  they  settled  it.  The  Andersons,  and  Ax- 
worthy, and  he,  are  going  to  hire  a  gun,  and  shoot  pee-wits  on  Cocks- 
moor.' 

'  But  they  ought  not ;  should  they  ?  '  said  Mary.  '  Papa  would 
be  very  angry.' 

'  Anderson  said  there  was  no  harm  in  it,  but  Harry  told  me  not 
to  tell.  Indeed,  Anderson  would  have  boxed  my  ears  for  hearing, 
when  I  could  not  help  it.' 

'  But  Harry  would  not  let  liim  ? ' 

'  Aye.  Harry  is  quite  a  match  for  Harvey  Anderson,  though  he 
is  so  much  younger ;  and  he  said  he  would  not  have  me  bullied.' 

'  That's  a  good  Harry !  But  I  wish  he  would  not  go  out  shoot- 
ing ! '  said  Mary. 

'  Mind,  you  don't  tell.' 

'  And  Where's  Hector  Ernescliife  ?  Would  not  he  go  ?  ' 
'  No.  I  like  Hector.  He  did  not  choose  to  go,  though  Anderson 
teazed  him,  and  said  he  was  a  poor  Scot,  and  his  brother  didn't  al- 
low him  tin  enough  to  buy  powder  and  shot.  If  Harry  would  have 
stayed  at  home,  he  would  have  come  up  here,  and  we  might  have  had 
some  fun  in  the  garden.' 

'  I  wish  he  would.  AVe  never  have  any  fun  now,'  said  Mary ; 
'  but  oh  !  there  he  is; '  as  she  spied  Hector  peeping  over  the  gate  which 
led,  from  the  field,  into  the  garden.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
been  to  Dr.  May's  since  his  brother's  departure,  and  he  was  rather 
shy,  but  the  joyful  welcome  of  Mary  and  Tom  took  off  all  reluctance, 
and  they  claimed  him  for  a  good  game  at  play  in  the  wood  house. 
Mary  ran  up-stairs  to  beg  to  be  excused  the  formal  walk,  and,  luckily 
for  her.  Miss  Winter  was  in  Margaret's  room.  Margaret  asked  if  it 
was  very  wet  and  dirty,  and  hearing  '  not  very,'  gave  gracious  per- 
mission, and  off  went  Mary  and  Blanche  to  construct  some  curious 
specimens  of  pottery,  under  the  superintendence  of  Hector  and  Tom. 
There  was  a  certain  ditch  where  yellow  mud  was  attainable,  whereof 


72  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

the  happy  children  concocted  marbles  and  vases,  •which  underwent  a 
preparatory  baking  in  the  boys'  pockets,  that  they  might  not  crack 
in  the  nursery  fire.  Margaret  only  stipulated  that  her  sisters  should 
be  well  fenced  in  brown  holland,  and  when  Miss  Winter  looked  grave 
said, '  Poor  things,  a  little  thorough  play  will  do  them  a  great  deal 
of  good.' 

Miss  Winter  could  not  see  the  good  of  groping  in  the  dirt ;  and 
Margaret  perceived  that  it  w^ould  be  one  of  her  difficulties  to  know 
how  to  follow  out  her  mother's  views  for  the  children,  without  vex- 
ing the  good  governess  by  not  deferring  to  her. 

In  the  meantime,  Norman  had  disconsolately  returned  to  his 
Euripides,  and  Ethel,  who  wanted  to  stay  with  him  and  look  out  his 
words,  was  ordered  out  by  Miss  Winter,  because  she  had  spent  all 
yesterday  in-doors.  Miss  Winter  was  going  to  stay  with  Margaret, 
and  Ethel  and  Flora  coaxed  Norman  to  come  with  them,  'just  one 
mile  on  the  turnpike  road  and  back  again  ;  he  would  be  much  fresher 
for  his  Greek  afterwards.' 

He  came,  but  he  did  not  enliven  his  sisters.  The  three  plodded 
on,  taking  a  diligent  constitutional  walk,  exchanging  very  few  words, 
and  those  chiefly  between  the  girls.  Flora  gathered  some  hoary 
clematis,  and  red  berries,  and  sought  in  the  liedge-sides  for  some 
crimson  '  fairy  baths'  to  carry  home  ;  and,  at  the  sight  of  the  amuse- 
ment Margaret  derived  from  the  placing  the  beauteous  little  Pezlzas 
in  a  saucer  of  damp  green  moss,  so  as  to  hide  the  brown  sticks  on 
which  they  grew,  Ethel  took  shame  to  herself  for  want  of  perception 
of  little  attentions.  When  she  told  Norman  so,  he  answered,  '  There's 
no  one  who  does  see  what  is  the  right  thing.  How  horrid  the  room 
looks!  Every  thing  is  no  how ! '  added  he,  looking  round  at  the 
ornaments  and  things  on  the  tables,  which  had  lost  their  air  of  com- 
fort and  good  taste.  It  was  not  disorder,  and  Ethel  could  not  see 
what  he  meant.     '  What's  wrong  ?  '  said  she. 

'  0  never  mind — you  can't  do  it.  Don't  tr}- — you'll  only  make 
it  worse.     It  will  never  be  the  same  as  long  as  we  live.' 

'  I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  unhappy ! '  said  Ethel. 

'  Never  mind,'  again  said  Norman,  but  he  put  his  arm  round  her. 

'  ]Iave  you  done  your  Euripides  ?  Can  I  help  you  ?  Will  you 
construe  it  with  me,  or  shall  I  look  out  your  words?' 

'  Thaidf  you,  I  don't  mind  that.  It  is  the  verses  !  I  want  some 
sense  ! '  said  Norman,  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair  till  it  stood 
on  end.  '  'Tis  such  a  horrid  subject,  Coral  Islands  !  As  if  there  was 
anything  to  be  said  about  them.' 

'  ]Jear  me,  Norman,  I  could  say  ten  thousand  things,  only  I  must 
not  tell  you  what  mine  are,  as  yours  are  not  done.' 

'  No,  df)u't,'  said  Norman,  decidedly. 

*  Did  you  read  the  descrij>tion  of  them  in  the  Quarterly  ?  I  aiu 
sure  you  might  get  some  ideas  there.  Shall  I  find  it  for  you  ?  It 
is  in  an  old  number.' 


THE   DAISY    CHAIX.  73 

'  Well,  do ;  tliank  you — ' 

He  rested  listlessly  on  the  sofa  while  his  sister  rummaged  in  a 
chiflfoniere.  At  last  she  found  the  article,  and  eagerly  read  him  the 
description  of  the  strange  forms  of  the  coral  animals,  and  the  beau- 
ties of  their  flower-like  feelers  and  branching  fabrics.  It  would 
once  have  delighted  him,  but  his  first  comment  was,  '  Xasty  little 
brutes  ! '  However,  the  next  minute  he  thanked  her,  took  the  book, 
and  said  he  could  hammer  something  out  of  it,  though  it  was  too  bad 
to  give  such  an  unclassical  subject.  At  dusk  he  left  off,  saying  he 
should  get  it  done  at  night,  his  senses  would  come  then,  and  he 
should  be  glad  to  sit  up. 

'  Only  three  weeks  to  the  holidays,'  said  Ethel,  trying  to  be 
cheerful ;  but  his  assent  was  depressing,  and  she  began  to  fear  that 
Christmas  would  only  make  them  more  sad. 

Mary  did  not  keep  Tom's  secret  so  inviolably,  but  that,  while 
they  were  dressing  for  tea,  she  revealed  to  Ethel  where  Harry  was 
gone.  He  was  not  yet  returned,  though  his  father  and  Richard  were 
come  in,  and  the  sisters  were  at  once  in  some  anxiety  on  his  account, 
and  doubt  whether  they  ought  to  let  papa  know  of  his  disobedience. 

Flora  and  Ethel,  who  were  the  first  in  the  drawing-room,  had  a 
consultation. 

'  I  should  have  told  mamma  directly,'  said  Flora. 

'  He  never  did  so,'  sighed  Ethel,  '  things  never  went  wrong  then.' 

'  0  yes,  they  did ;  don't  you  remember  how  naughty  Harry  was 
about  climbing  the  wall,  and  making  faces  at  Mrs.  Richardson's  ser- 
vants ? ' 

'  And  how  ill  I  behaved  the  first  day  of  last  Christmas  holidays  ?  ' 

'  She  knew,  but  I  don't  think  she  told  papa.' 

'  Not  that  we  knew  of,  but  I  believe  she  did  tell  him  everything, 
and  I  think,  Flora,  he  ought  to  knoAV  everything,  especially  now.  I 
never  could  bear  the  way  the  Mackenzies  used  to  have  of  thinking 
their  parents  must  be  like  enemies,  and  keeping  secrets  from  them.' 

'  They  were  always  threatening  each  other,  "  I'll  tell  mamma," 
said  Flora,  '  and  calling  us  tell-tales  because  we  told  our  own  dear 
mamma  everything.     But  it  is  not  like  that  now — I  neither  like  to 
worry  papa,  nor  to  bring  Harry  into  disgrace — besides,  Tom  and 
Mary  meant  it  for  a  secret.' 

'  Papa  would  not  be  angry  with  him  if  we  told  him  it  was  a  se- 
cret,' said  Ethel ;  '  I  wish  Harry  would  come  in.  There's  the  door 
• — oh  !  it  is  only  you.' 

'  Whom  did  you  expect  ?  '  said  Richard,  entering. 

The  sisters  looked  at  each  other,  and  Ethel,  after  an  interval, 
explained  their  doubts  about  Harry. 

'  He  is  come  in,'  said  Richard  ;  '  I  saw  him  running  up  to  his  own 
room,  very  muddy.' 

'  0,  I'm  glad  !  But  do  you  think  papa  ought  to  hear  it  ?  I  don't 
know  what's  to  be  done.     'Tis  the  children's  secret,'  said  Flora. 
Vol.  T.-  -4 


74  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

'  It  will  never  do  to  have  him  going  out  with  those  boys  contin 
uallj,'  8aid  Ethel — '  Harvey  Anderson  close  by  all  the  holidays! ' 

'  I'll  try  what  I  can  do  with  him,'  said  Eichard.  '  Papa  had  better 
not  hear  it  now,  at  any  rate.  He  is  very  tired  and  sad  this  evening  ! 
and  his  arm  is  painful  again,  so  we  must  not  worry  him  with  histories 
of  naughtiness  among  the  children.' 

'  No,'  said  Ethel,  decidedly,  '  I  am  glad  you  were  there,  Ritchie ; 
T  never  should  have  thought  of  one  time  being  better  than  another.' 

'  Just  like  Ethel ! '  said  Flora,  smiling. 

'  Why  should  you  not  learn  ?  '  said  llichard  gently. 

'  I  can't,'  said  Ethel,  in  a  desponding  way. 

'  Why  not  ?  You  are  much  sharper  than  most  people,  and,  if 
you  tried,  you  would  know  those  things  much  better  than  I  do,  as 
you  know  how  to  learn  history.' 

'  It  is  quite  a  different  sort  of  cleverness,'  caid  Flora.  '  Recol- 
lect Sir  Isaac  Newton,  or  Archimedes.' 

'  Then  you  must  have  both  sorts,'  said  Ethel,  '  for  you  can  do 
things  nicely,  and  yet  you  learn  very  fast.' 

'  Take  care,  Ethel,  you  are  singeing  j-our  frock  !  Well,  I  really 
don't  think  you  can  help  those  things  !  '  said  Flora.  '  Your  short 
sight  is  the  reason  of  it,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  mend  it.' 

'  Don't  tell  her  so,'  said  llichard.  '  It  can't  be  all  short  sight — 
it  is  the  not  thinking.  I  do  believe  that  if  Ethel  would  think,  no 
one  would  do  things  so  well.  Don't  you  remember  the  beautiful  per- 
spective drawing  she  made  of  this  room,  for  me  to  take  to  Oxford  ? 
That  was  very  difficult,  and  wanted  a  great  deal  of  neatness  and  ac- 
curacy, so  why  should  she  not  be  neat  and  accurate  in  other  things  ? 
And  I  know  you  can  read  faces,  Ethel — why  don't  you  look  there 
before  you  speak  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  before  instead  of  after,  when  I  only  sec  I  have  said  some- 
thing 7nal-u-propos,^  said  Ethel. 

'  I  must  go  and  see  about  the  children,'  said  Flora ;  '  if  the  tea 
comes  while  I  am  gone,  will  you  make  it,  Ritchie  ?  ' 

*  Flora  despairs  of  me,'  said  Ethel. 

'  I  don't,'  said  Richard.  '  Have  you  forgotten  how  to  put  in  a 
pin  yet  ? ' 

'  No  ;  I  hope  not.' 

'  Well,  then,  sec  if  you  can't  learn  to  make  tea ;  and,  by-the-by, 
Ethel,  which  is  the  next  Christening  Sunday  ? ' 

*  The  one  after  next,  surely.  The  first  of  December  is  Monday 
— yes,  to-morrow  week  is  the  next.' 

'  Then  I  have  thought  of  something;  it  would  cost  oighteen-pence 
to  hire  Joliffe's  spring-cart,  and  we  might  have  Mrs.  Taylor  and  the 
twins  brouglit  to  Church  in  it.  Should  you  like  to  walk  to  Cocks- 
moor  aud  settle  it  ?  ' 

'  0  yes,  very  much  indeed.  What  a  capital  thought.  Margaret 
said  you  would  know  how  to  manage.' 


THE   DAISY    CIiAIK".  75 

'  Then  we  will  go  the  first  fine  day  papa  does  not  want  me.' 

'  I  wonder  if  I  could  finish  my  purple  frocks.  But  here's  tha 
tea.  Now,  Richard,  don't  tell  me  to  make  it.  I  shall  do  some- 
thing wrong,  and  Flora  will  never  forgive  you.' 

llichard  would  not  let  her  off.  He  stood  over  her,  counted  her 
shovelsfull  of  tea,  and  watched  the  water  into  the  teapot — ^he  super- 
intended her  warming  the  cups,  and  putting  a  drop  into  each  saucer. 
'  Ah ! '  said  Ethel,  with  a  concluding  sigh,  "  it  makes  one  hotter 
than  double  equations  !  ' 

It  was  all  right,  as  Flora  allowed  with  a  slightly  superior  smile. 
She  thought  Richard  would  never  succeed  in  making  a  notable  or 
elegant  woman  of  Ethel,  and  it  was  best  that  the  two  sisters  should 
take  different  lines.  Flora  knew  that,  thougli  clever  and  with  more 
accomplishments,  she  could  not  surjjass  Ethel  in  intellectual  attain- 
ments, but  she  was  certainly  far  more  A^aluable  in  the  house,  and 
had  been  proved  to  have  just  the  qualities  in  which  her  sister  was 
most  deficient.  She  did  not  relish  hearing  that  Ethel  wanted 
nothing  but  attention  to  be  more  than  her  equal,  and  she  thought 
Richard  mistaken.  Flora's  remembrance  of  their  time  of  distress 
was  less  unmixedly  wretched  than  it  was  with  the  others,  for  she 
knew  she  had  done  wonders. 

The  next  day  Norman  told  Ethel  that  he  had  got  on  very  well 
with  the  verses,  and  finished  them  off  late  at  night.  He  showed 
them  to  her  before  taking  them  to  school  on  Monday  morning,  and 
Ethel  thought  they  were  the  best  he  had  ever  written.  There  was 
too  much  spirit  and  poetical  beauty,  for  a  mere  school-boy  task, 
and  she  begged  for  the  foul  copy,  to  show  it  to  her  father.  '  I  have 
not  got  it,'  said  Norman.  '  The  foul  copy  was  not  like  these ;  but 
when  I  was  writing  them  out  quite  late,  it  was  all,  I  don't  know 
how.  Flora's  music  was  in  my  ears,  and  the  room  seemed  to  get 
larger,  and  like  an  ocean  cave ;  and  when  the  candle  flickered,  'twas 
like  the  green  glowing  light  of  the  sun  through  the  waves.' 

'  As  it  says  here,'  said  Ethel. 

'  And  the  words  all  came  to  me  of  themselves  in  beautiful  flow- 
ing Latin,  just  right,  as  if  it  was  anybody  but  myself  doing  it,  and 
fchey  ran  oft'  my  pen  in  red  and  blue  and  gold,  and  all  sorts  of  colours ; 
and  fine  branching  zig-zagging  stars,  like  what  the  book  described, 
only  stranger,  came  dancing  and  radiating  round  my  pen  and  the 
eandle.  I  could  hardly  believe  the  verses  would  scan  by  daylight, 
but  I  caut'  find  a  mistake.     Do  you  try  them  again.' 

Ethel  scanned.  '  I  see  nothing  wrong,'  she  said,  '  but  it  seems 
a  shame  to  begin  scanning  Undine's  verses,  they  are  too  pretty.  I 
wish  I  could  copy  them.     It  must  have  been  half  a  dream.' 

'  I  believe  it  was ;  they  don't  seem  like  my  own.' 

'  Did  you  dream  afterwards  ?  ' 

He  shivered.  '  They  had  got  into  my  head  too  much  ;  my  eara 
eaug  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  and  I  thought  my  feet  were  frozen 


76 


THE    DAISY    Clf.VIN. 


Oil  to  au  iceberg  :  then  came  darkness,  and  sea-monsters,  and  drown* 
ing — it  was  too  horrid ! '  and  his  face  expressed  all,  and  more  than 
all,  he  said.  *  Eut  'tis  a  quarter  to  seven — we  must  go,'  said  he, 
with  a  long  yawn,  and  rubbing  his  eyes.  '  You  are  sure  they  aru 
right  Ethel  V'     Harry,  come  along.' 

Ethel  thought  those  verses  ought  to  make  a  sensation,  but  all  that 
came  of  them  was  a  Quam  opiimc,  and  when  she  asked  Norman  if 
no  special  notice  had  been  taken  of  them,  he  said,  in  his  lan<^uid 
way,  '  No ;  only  Dr.  Iloxton  said  they  were  better  than  usual.' 

Ethel  did  not  even  have  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  that  Mr. 
Wilmot,  hapi)ening  to  meet  Dr.  May,  said  to  him,  '  Your  boy  has 
more  of  a  poet  in  him  than  any  that  has  come  in  my  way.  He 
really  sometimes  makes  very  striking  verses.' 

llichard  watched  for  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Harry,  which 
did  not  at  once  occur,  as  the  boy  spent  very  little  of  his  time  at 
home,  and,  as  if  by  tacit  consent,  he  and  Norman  came  in  later  every 
evening.  At  last,  on  Thursday,  in  the  additional  two  hours'  leisure 
allowed  to  the  boys,  when  the  studious  preiiarcd  their  tasks,  and  the 
idle  had  some  special  diversion,  Richard  encountered  him  running 
up  to  his  own  room  to  fetch  a  newly-invented  instrument  for  pro- 
jecting stones. 

'  I'll  walk  back  to  school  with  you,'  said  Richard. 

'  I  mean  to  run,'  returned  Harry. 

'  Is  there  so  much  hurry  ?  '  said  llichard.  '  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for 
I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  Harry;  I  have  something  to  show  you.' 

His  manner  conveyed  that  it  related  to  their  mother,  and  the 
sobering  effect  was  instantaneous.  '  Very  well,'  said  he,  forgettin" 
his  haste.     '  I'll  come  into  your  room.' 

The  awe-struck,  shy,  yet  sorrowful  look  on  his  rosy  face,  showed 
preparation  enough,  and  Richard's  only  preface  was  to  say,  '  It  is  a 
bit  of  a  letter  that  she  was  in  course  of  writing  to  aunt  Flora,  a  de- 
scription of  us  all.  The  letter  itself  is  gone,  but  here  is  a  copy  of 
it.     I  tliought  you  would  like  to  read  what  relates  to  yourself.' 

Richard  laid  before  him  the  sheet  of  note  paper  on  which  this 
portion  of  the  letter  was  written,  and  left  him  alone  with  it,  while 
he  set  out  on  the  promised  walk  with  Ethel. 

They  found  the  old  woman,  Granny  Hall,  looking  like  another 
creature,  smoke-dried  and  withered  indeed,  but  all  briskness  and 
animation. 

'  Well !  be  it  you.  Sir,  and  the  young  lady  't ' 

'Yes;  here  we  arc  come  to  see  you  again,'  said  Richard.  '  I  hope 
you  are  not  disappointed  that  I  have  brought  my  sister  this  time 
instead  of  the  Doctor.' 

'  No,  no,  Sir;  I've  done  with  the  Doctor  for  this  while,' said  the 
old  woman,  to  Ethel's  great  amusement.  '  He  have  done  me  a 
power  of  good,  and  thank  him  for  it  heartily;  but  the  young  lady  is 
right  welcome  here — but  "tis  a  dirty  walk  fur  her.' 


THE   DAISY    CIIAI2f.  71 

*  Never  mind  that,'  said  Ethel,  a  little  shyly,  '  I  came — -where  arr 
your  grandchildren  ? ' 

"  0  somewhere  out  among  the  blocks.  They  gets  out  with  the 
other  children ;  I  can't  be  always  after  them.' 

'  I  wanted  to  know  if  these  would  fit  them,'  said  Ethel,  begin 
ning  to  undo  her  basket. 

'  Well,  'pon  my  word  !  If  ever  I  see  !  Here  ! '  stepping  out  to  the 
door,  '  Polly — Jenny !  come  in,  I  say,  this  moment !  Come  in,  ye 
bad  girls,  or  I'll  give  you  the  stick  ;  I'll  break  every  bone  of  you, 
that  I  will !  '  all  which  threats  were  bawled  out  in  such  a  good-na- 
tured, triumphant  voice,  and  with  such  a  delighted  air,  that  Kichard 
and  Ethel  could  not  help  laughing. 

After  a  few  moments,  Polly  and  Jenny  made  their  appearance, 
extremely  rough  and  ragged,  but  compelled  by  their  grandmother 
to  duck  down,  by  way  of  courtesies,  and  with  finger  in  mouth  they 
stood,  too  shy  to  show  their  delight,  as  the  garments  were  un- 
folded ;  Granny  talking  so  fast  that  Ethel  would  never  have  brought 
in  the  stipulation,  that  the  frocks  should  be  worn  to  school  and 
Church,  if  Richard,  in  his  mild,  but  steady  way,  had  not  brought 
the  old  woman  to  listen  to  it.  She  was  full  of  asseverations  that 
they  should  go ;  she  took  them  to  Church  sometimes  herself,  when 
it  was  fine  weather  and  they  had  clothes,  and  they  could  say  their 
catechiz  as  well  as  anybody  already ;  yes,  they  should  come,  that 
they  should,  and  next  Sunday.  Ethel  promised  to  be  there  to  in- 
troduce them  to  the  chief  lady,  the  president  of  the  Committee, 
Mrs.  Ledwich,  and,  with  a  profusion  oif  thanks,  they  took  leave. 

They  found  John  Taylor,  just  come  out  of  the  hospital,  looking 
weak  and  ill,  as  he  smoked  his  pipe  over  the  fire,  his  wife  bustling 
about  at  a  great  rate,  and  one  of  the  infants  crying.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  great  relief  that  they  were  not  come  to  complain  of  Lucy,  and 
there  were  many  looks  of  surprise  on  hearing  what  their  business 
really  was.  Mrs.  Taylor  thanked,  and  appeared  not  to  know 
whether  she  was  glad  or  sorry;  and  her  husband,  pipe  in  hand, 
gazed  at  the  young  gentleman  as  if  he  did  not  comprehend  the 
species,  since  he  could  not  be  old  enough  to  be  a  Clergyman. 

Richard  hoped  they  would  find  sponsors  by  that  time;  and 
there  Mrs.  Taylor  gave  little  hope  ;  it  was  a  bad  lot — there  was  no 
one  she  liked  to  ask  to  stand,  she  said,  in  a  dismal  voice;  but  there 
her  husband  put  in, '  I'll  find  some  one,  if  that's  all ;  my  missus 
always  thinks  nobody  can't  do  nothing.' 

*  To  be  sure,'  said  the  lamentable  3Irs.  Taylor, '  all  the  elder  ones 
was  took  to  Church,  and  I'm  loth  the  little  ones  shouldn't ;  but  you 
see,  Sir,  we  are  poor  people,  and  it's  a  long  way,  and  they  was  set 
down  in  the  gentleman's  register  book.' 

"But  you  know  that  is  not  the  same,  Mrs.  Taylor.  Surelj 
Lucy  could  have  told  you  that,  when  she  went  to  school.' 


78  THE   DAISY   CHAm. 

*  No,  Sir, 'tis  not  the  same — I  knows  that;  but  this  is  a  bad 
place  to  live  in — ' 

'  Always  the  old  song,  Missus ! '  exclaimed  her  husband.  *'  Thank 
you  kindly,  Sir — you  have  been  a  good  friend  to  us,  and  so  was 
Dr.  May,  when  I  was  up  to  the  hospital,  through  the  thick  of  his 
own  troubles.  I  believe  you  are  in  the  right  of  it.  Sir,  and  thank 
you.  The  children  shall  be  ready,  and  little  Jack  too,  and  I'll 
tind  gossips,  and  let  'em  be  Christened  on  Sunday.' 

'  I  believe  you  will  be  glad  of  it,'  said  Richard ;  and  he  went 
on  to  speak  of  the  elder  children  cciuing  to  school,  on  Sunday,  tluis 
causing  another  whining  from  the  wife  about  distance  and  bad 
weather,  and  no  one  else  going  that  wiy.  He  said  the  little  Halls 
were  coming,  but  Mrs.  Taylor  began  saying  she  disliked  their  com- 
pany for  the  children — granny  let  them  get  about  so  much,  and 
they  said  bad  words.  The  father  again  interfered.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Wilmot,  who  acted  as  chaplain  at  the  hospital,  had  been  talking 
to  him,  for  he  declared  at  once  that  they  should  come ;  and  Richard 
suggested  that  he  might  see  them  home  when  he  came  from  Church ; 
then,  turning  to  the  boy  and  girl,  told  them  they  would  meet  their 
sister  Lucy,  and  asked  them  if  they  would  not  like  that. 

On  tlie  whole,  the  beginning  was  not  inauspicious,  though  there 
might  be  a  doubt  whether  old  Mrs.  Hall  would  keep  all  her  pro- 
mises. Ethel  was  so  much  diverted  and  pleased  as  to  be  convinced 
she  would ;  Richard  was  a  little  doubtful  as  to  her  power  over  the 
wild  girls.  There  could  not  be  any  doubt  that  John  Taylor  was  in 
earnest,  and  had  been  worked  upon  just  at  the  riglit  moment ;  but 
there  was  danger  that  the  impression  would  not  last.  '  And  his 
wife  is  such  a  horrible  whining  dawdle  ! '  said  Ethel — '  there  will  be 
no  good  to  be  done  if  it  depends  on  her.' 

Richard  made  no  answer,  and  Ethel  presently  felt  remorseful  for 
her  harsh  speech  about  a  poor  ignorant  woman,  overwhelmed  with 
poverty,  children,  and  weak  health. 

'  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  what  you  said  last 
time  we  took  this  walk,'  said  Richard,  after  a  considerable  interval. 

'  0,  have  you  !  '  cried  Ethel,  eagerly;  and  the  black  peaty  pond 
she  was  looking  at,  seemed  to  sparkle  witli  sunlight. 

'  Do  you  really  mean  it?  '  said  Richard,  deliberately. 

'  Yes,  to  be  sure  ; '  she  said,  with  some  indignation. 

'  Because  I  think  I  see  a  way  to  make  a  beginning,  but  you 
must  make  up  your  mind  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  dirty  walks, 
and  you  must  really  learn  not  to  draggle  your  frock.' 

'  Well,  well ;  but  tell  me.' 

'This  is  what  I  was  thinking.  I  don't  think  I  can  go  back  to  Oxford 
after  Christmas.     It  is  not  fit  to  leave  you  while  papa  is  so  disabled.' 

*  0  no,  he  could  not  get  on  at  all.  I  heard  him  tell  Mr.  Wil- 
mot flic  other  day  that  you  were  his  right  hand.' 

EtLol  was  glad  she  had  repeated  this,  for  there  was  a  deepening 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  79 

colour  aud  smiling  glow  of  pleasure  on  her  brother's  face,  such  as 
she  had  seldom  seen  on  his  delicate,  but  somewhat  impassive  features. 

'  He  is  very  kind  ! '  he  said,  warmly.  '  No,  I  am  sure  I  cannot 
be  spared  till  he  is  better  able  to  use  his  arm,  and  T  don't  see  any 
chance  of  that  just  yet.  Then  if  I  stay  at  home,  Friday  is  always 
at  my  own  disposal,  while  papa  is  at  the  hospital  meeting.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  and  we  could  go  to  Cocksmoor  and  set  up  a  school 
How  delightful ! ' 

'  I  don't  think  you  would  find  it  quite  as  delightful  as  you  fan- 
cy,' said  Richard;  '  the  children  will  be  very  wild  and  ignorant,  and 
you  don't  like  that  at  the  Xatioual  School.' 

'  0  but  they  are  in  such  need,  besides  there  will  be  no  Mrs.  Led- 
wich  over  me.  It  is  just  right, — I  shan't  mind  anything.  You 
are  a  capital  E.itchie,  for  having  thought  of  it ! ' 

'  I  don't  think — if  I  am  ever  to  be  what  I  wish,  that  is,  if  I  can 
get  through  at  Oxford — I  don't  think  it  can  be  wrong  to  begin  this, 
if  Mr.  Ramsden  does  not  object.' 

'  0  Mr.  Ramsden  does  not  object  to  anything.' 

'  And  if  Mr.  Wilmot  will  come  and  set  us  off.  You  know  wo 
cannot  begin  without  that,  or  without  my  father's  fully  liking  it.' 

'  Oh  !  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that ! ' 

'  This  one  thing,  Ethel,  I  must  stipulate.  Don't  you  go  and  tell  it  all 
out  at  once  to  him.     I  cannot  have  him  worried  about  our  concerns.' 

'  But  how — no  one  can  question  that  this  is  right.  I  am  sure  he 
won't  object.' 

'  Stop,  Ethel,  don't  you  see,  it  can't  be  done  for  nothing?  If  we  un- 
dertake it,  we  must  go  on  with  it,  and  when  I  am  away  it  will  fall  on  you 
and  Flora.  "Well,  then,  it  ought  to  be  considered  whether  you  are  old 
enough  and  steady  enough ;  and  if  it  can  be  managed  for  you  to  go  con- 
tinually all  this  way,  in  this  wild  place.     There  will  be  expense  too.' 

Ethel  looked  wild  with  impatience,  but  could  not  gainsay  these 
scruples,  otherwise  than  by  declaring  they  ought  not  to  weigh  against 
the  good  of  Cocksmoor. 

'  It  will  worry  him  to  have  to  consider  all  this,'  said  Richard, 
'  and  it  must  not  be  pressed  upon  him.' 

'  No,  said  Ethel,  sorowfully ;  '  but  you  don't  mean  to  give  it  up.' 

'  You  are  always  in  extremes,  Ethel.  All  I  want  is  to  find  a 
good  time  for  proposing  it.' 

She  fidgetted  and  gave  a  long  sigh. 

'  Mind,'  said  Richard,  stopping  short, '  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it  except  on  condition  you  are  patient,  and  hold  your  tongue  about  it.' 
'  I  think  I  can,  if  I  may  talk  to  Margaret.' 
'  0  yes,  to  Margaret  of  course.     We  could  not  settle  anything 
without  her  help.' 

'  And  I  know  what  she  will  say,'  said  Ethel.  '  0  I  am  so  glad, 
and  she  jumped  over  three  puddles  in  succession. 

'  And,  Ethel,  you  must  learn  to  keep  your  frock  out  of  the  dirt. 
'  I'll  do  anything,  if  you'll  help  me  at  Cocksmoor.' 


80  THE  DAISY   CHAIN. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

'  For  the  strncturc  that  we  rnlse. 
Time  is  with  materials  filled; 
Our  to^ia)•s  and  yesterdays. 
Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these, 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen.' 

LO-NGFELLOW. 

When  Ethel  came  home,  burning  ^Yith  the  tidings  of  the  newly- 
excited  hopes  for  Cocksmoor,  they  were  at  otce  stopped  by  Marga- 
ret eagerly  saying,  '  Is  Richard  come  in  ?  pray  call  him  ;'  then  on 
his  entrance, '  0,  Richard,  would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  this  to  the 
Bank.  I  don't  like  to  send  it  by  any  one  else — it  is  so  much;'  and 
she  took  from  under  her  pillows  a  velvet  bag,  so  heavy,  that  it 
weighed  down  her  slender  white  hand. 

'  AVhat,  he  has  given  you  the  care  of  his  money  ?  '  said  Ethel. 

'  Yes ;  I  saw  him  turning  somctliing  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket 
into  the  drawer  of  the  looking-glass,  and  sighing  in  that  very  sad 
way.  lie  said  his  fees  had  come  to  sucli  an  accumulation,  that  he 
must  see  about  sending  them  to  the  Rank ;  and  then  he  told  me  of 
the  delight  of  throwing  his  first  fee  into  dear  mamma's  lap,  when 
they  were  just  married,  and  his  old  uncle  had  given  up  to  him,  and 
how  he  had  brought  them  to  her  ever  since ;  he  said  she  had  spoiled 
him,  by  taking  all  trouble  off  his  hands.  He  looked  at  it,  as  if  it 
was  so  sorrowful  to  him  to  have  to  dispose  of  it,  that  I  begged  him 
not  to  plague  himself  any  more,  but  let  me  see  about  it,  as  dear 
mamma  used  to  do;  so  he  said  I  was  spoiling  him  too,  but  he  brought 
me  the  drawer,  and  emptied  it  out  here  :  when  he  was  gone,  I  packed 
it  up,  and  I  have  been  waiting  to  ask  Richard  to  take  it  all  to  the 
Rank,  out  of  his  sight.' 

*  You  counted  it?  '  said  Richard. 

'  Yes — there's  fifty — I  kept  seventeen  toward  the  week's  expenses. 
Just  see  that  it  is  right,'  said  Margaret,  showing  her  neat  packets. 

'  Oh,  Ritchie,'  said  Ethel,  '  what  can  expense  signify,  when  all 
that  has  been  kicking  about  loose  in  an  open  drawer  ?  What  wouLl 
one  of  those  rolls  do  V  ' 

'I  think  I  had  better  take  them  out  of  your  way,' Said  Richard, 
quietly.     '  Am  I  to  bring  back  the  book  to  you,  Margaret  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  do,'  said  Margaret ;  '  pray  do  not  teaze  him  with  it.'  And 
as  her  brother  left  the  room,  she  continued,  '  I  wish  he  was  better. 
I  think  he  is  more  oppressed  now  than  even  at  first.  The  pain  of 
his  arm,  going  on  so  long,  seems  to  me  to  ha\t;  pulled  him  down ; 
it  does  not  let  him  sleep,  and,  by  the  end  of  the  day,  he  gets  worn 
and  fagged,  by  seeing  so  many  people,  and  exerting  himself  to  talk 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  81 

and  think ;  and  often,  when  there  is  something  that  must  be  asked, 
I  don't  know  how  to  begin,  for  it  seems  as  if  a  little  more  would 
be  too  much  for  him.' 

'  Yes,  Ptichard  is  right,'  said  Ethel,  mournfully ;  '  it  will  not  do  to 
press  him  about  our  concerns ;  but  do  you  think  him  worse  to-day  ?  • 

'  He  did  not  sleep  last  night,  and  he  is  always  worse  when  he 
djes  not  drive  out  into  the  country;  the  fresh  air,  and  being  alone 
with  Richard,  are  a  rest  for  him.  To-day  is  especially  trying  ;^  he 
does  not  think  poor  old  Mr.  Southern  will  get  through  the  evening 
and  he  is  so  sorry  for  the  daughter.' 

*  Is  he  there  now  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  he  thought  of  something  that  might  be  an  alleviation,  and 
he  would  go,  though  he  was  tired.  I  am  afraid  the  poor  daughter 
will  detain  him,  and  he  is  not  fit  to  go  through  such  things  now.' 

'  No,  I  hope  he  will  soon  come;  perhaps  Richard  will  meet  him. 
But,  0  Margaret,  what  do  you  think  Richard  and  I  have  been 
talking  of  ?  '  and,  without  perception  of  fit  times  and  seasons,  Ethel 
would  have  told  her  story,  but  Margaret,  too  airxious  to  attend  to 
her,  said,  '  Hark  !  was  not  that  his  step  ?  '  and  Dr.  May  came  in 
looking -mournful  and  fatigued. 

*  Well,'  said  he, '  I  was  just  too  late.  He  died  as  I  got  there,  and 
I  could  not  leave  the  daughter  till  old  Mrs.  Bowers  came.' 

'  Poor  thing,'  said  Margaret.     '  He  was  a  good  old  man.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Dr.  May  sitting  wearily  down,  and  speaking  in  a 
worn-out  voice.  '  One  can't  lightly  part  with  a  man  one  has  seen 
at  Church  every  Sunday  of  one's  life,  and  exchanged  so  many 
friendly  words  with  over  his  counter.  'Tis  a  strong  bond  of  neigh- 
bourliness in  a  small  place  like  this,  and,  as  one  grows  old,  changes 
come  l^eavier — •"  the  clouds  return  again  after  the  rain."  Thank 
you,  my  dear,'  as  Ethel  fetched  his  slippers,  and  placed  a  stool  for 
his  feet,  feeling  somewhat  ashamed  of  thinking  it  an  achievement 
to  have,  unbidden,  performed  a  small  act  of  attention  which  would 
have  come  naturally  from  any  of  the  others. 

'  Papa,  you  will  give  me  the  treat  of  drinking  tea  with  me  ?  '  said 
Margaret,  who  saw  the  quiet  of  her  room  would  suit  him  better 
than  the  bustle  of  the  children  down  stairs.  '  Thank  you,'  as  he 
gave  a  smile  of  assent. 

That  Margaret  could  not  be  made  to  listen  this  evening  was  plain, 
and  all  that  Ethel  could  do,  was  to  search  for  some  books  on  schools. 
In  seeking  for  them,  she  displayed  such  confusion  in  the  chilfoniere, 
that  Plora  exclaimed,  '  Oh,  Ethel,  how  could  you  leave  it  so  ?  ' 

'  I  was  in  a  hurry,  looking  for  something  for  Norman.  I'll  set 
it  to  rights,'  said  Ethel,  gulping  down  her  dislike  to  being  reproved 
by  Flora,  with  the  thought  that  mamma  would  have  said  the  same. 

'  My  dear  !  '  cried  Flora  presently,  jumping  up,  '  what  are  you 
doing  ?  piling  up  those  heavy  books  on  the  top  of  the  little  ones  j 
how  do  you  think  they  will  ever  stand  ?  let  me  do  it.' 

T^L.  I.      4* 


82  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

'  No,  uo,  Flora ; '  and  Richard,  in  a  low  voice,  gave  Ethel  soma 
advice,  which  she  received,  seated  on  the  floor,  in  a  mood  between 
temper  and  despair. 

'  He  is  ^oi:!g  to  teach  her  to  do  it  on  the  principles  of  gravita- 
tion,'said  Fiura. 

llichard  did  not  do  it  himself,  but,  by  his  means,  Ethel,  with- 
out being  in  the  least  irritated,  gave  the  chiflFoniere  a  thorough  dust' 
infj  and  scttintr-to-rights,  sortino;  masaziucs,  burnino;  old  catalogues, 
and  finding  her  long-lost  '  Undine,'  at  which  she  was  so  delighted, 
that  she  would  have  forgotten  all,  in  proceeding  to  read  it,  curled 
up  on  the  floor  amongst  the  heaps  of  pamphlets,  if  another  gentle 
hint  from  llichard  had  not  made  her  finish  her  task  so  well,  as  to 
make  Flora  declare  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  in,  and  Harry  pro- 
nounce it  to  be  all  neat  and  ship-shape. 

There  was  no  speaking  to  Margaret-the  next  morning — it  was 
French  day — and  Ethel  had  made  strong  resolutions  to  behave 
better ;  and  whether  there  were  fewer  idioms,  or  that  she  was  try- 
ing to  understand,  instead  of  carping  at  the  master's  explanations, 
they  came  to  no  battle ;  Flora  led  the  conversation,  and  she  sus- 
tained her  part  with  credit  and  gained  an  excellent  mark. 

Flora  said  afterwards  to  Margaret,  '  I  managed  nicely  for  her.  I 
would  not  let  M.  Ballompni  blunder  upon  any  of  the  subjects  Ethel 
feels  too  deeply  to  talk  of  in  good  French,  and  really  Ethel  has  a 
great  talent  for  languages.     How  fast  she  gets  on  with  Italian  ! ' 

'  That  she  does,'  said  Margaret.  '  Suppose  you  send  her  up, 
Flora — you  must  want  to  go  and  draw  or  practise,  and  she  may  do 
her  arithmetic  here,  or  read  to  me.' 

It  was  the  second  time  Margaret  had  made  this  proposal,  and  it 
did  not  please  Flora,  who  had  learned  to  think  herself  necessary 
to  her  sister,  and  liked  to  be  the  one  to  do  everything  for  her.  She 
was  within  six  weeks  of  seventeen,  and  surely  she  need  not  be 
sent  down  again  to  the  school-room,  when  she  had  been  so  good 
a  manager  of  the  whole  family.  She  was  fond  of  study  and  of 
accomplishments,  but  she  thought  she  might  be  emancipated  from 
Miss  Winter ;  and  it  was  not  pleasant  to  her  that  a  sister,  only 
eighteen  months  older,  and  almost  dependent  on  her,  should  have 
authority  to  dispose  of  her  time. 

*  I  practise  in  the  evening,'  she  said,  '  and  I  could  draw  here  if 
I  wished,  but  I  have  some  music  to  copy.' 

Margaret  was  concerned  at  the  dissatisfaction,  though  not  undcr- 
etanding  the  Avliole  of  it ;  '  You  know,  dear  Flora,'  she  said,  '  I 
need  not  take  up  all  your  time  now.' 

'  Don't  regret  that,'  said  Flora.  '  I  like  nothing  so  well  as  wait- 
ing on  you,  and  I  can  attend  to  my  own  aft'airs  very  well  here.' 

'  I'll  tell  you  why  I  proposed  it,'  said  Margaret.  *  I  think  it 
would  be  a  relief  to  Ethel  to  escape  from  Miss  Winter's  belovc4 
Friday  fjuestions.' 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  83 

'  Great  nonsense  they  are,'  said  Flora.  '  Why  don't  you  tell 
Miss  Winter  they  are  of  no  use  ?  ' 

'  Mamma  ne^^er  interfered  with  them,'  said  Margaret.  '  She 
only  kept  Ethel  in  her  own  hands,  and  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as 
to  change  sometimes  and  sit  in  the  school-room,  we  could  spare 
Ethel,  without  hurting  Miss  Winter's  feelings.' 

'  I'll  call  Ethel,  if  you  like,  but  I  shall  go  and  practise  in  the 
drawing-room.  The  old  school-room  piano  is  fit  for  nothing  but 
Mary  to  hammer  upon.' 

Flora  went  away,  evidently  annoyed,  and  Margaret's  conjectures 
on  the  cause  of  it,  were  cut  short,  by  Ethel  running  in  with  a  slate 
in  one  hand,  and  two  books  in  the  other,  the  rest  having  all  tumbled 
down  on  the  stairs. 

'  0,  Margaret,  I  am  so  glad  to  come  to  you.  Miss  Winter  has 
set  Mary  to  read  "  To  be  or  not  to  be,"  and  it  would  have  driven 
me  distracted  to  have  staid  there.  I  have  got  a  most  beautiful  sum 
in  ComjDOund  Proportion,  about  a  lion,  a  wolf,  and  a  bear  eating  up 
a  carcase,  and  as  soon  as  they  have  done  it,  you  shall  hear  me  say 
my  ancient  geography,  and  then  we  will  do  a  nice  bit  of  Tasso; 
and  if  we  have  any  time  after  that,  I  have  got  such  a  thing  to  tell 
you — only  I  must  not  tell  you  now,  or  I  shall  go  on  talking  and 
not  finish  my  lessons.' 

It  was  not  till  all  were  done,  that  Ethel  felt  free  to  exclaim, 
'  Now  for  what  I  have  been  longing  to  tell  you — llichard  is  going 
to — '  But  the  fates  were  unpropitious.  Aubrey  trotted  in  expect- 
ing to  be  amused ;  next  came  Norman,  and  Ethel  gave  up  in  de- 
spair; and,  after  having  affronted  Flora  in  the  morning,  Margaret 
was  afraid  of  renewing  the  offence,  by  attempting  to  secure  Ethel  as 
her  companion  for  the  afternoon ;  so  not  till  after  the  walk,  could 
Margaret  contrive  to  claim  the  promised  communication,  telling 
Ethel  to  come  and  settle  herself  cosily  by  her. 

'  I  should  have  been  very  glad  of  you  last  evening,'  said  she, 
'  for  papa  went  to  sleep,  and  my  book  was  out  of  reach.' 

'  0,  I  am  sorry ;  how  I  pity  you,  poor  Margaret ! ' 

'  I  suppose  I  have  grown  lazy,'  said  Margaret, '  for  I  don't  mind 
those  things  now.  I  am  never  sorry  for  a  quiet  time  to  recollect 
and  consider.' 

'  It  must  be  like  the  waiting  in  the  dark  between  the  slides  of  a 
magic  lantern,'  said  Ethel ;  '  I  never  like  to  be  quiet.  I  get  so 
unhappy.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  resting  and  recollecting,'  said  Margaret.  '  It  has 
all  been  so  like  a  dream,  that  merry  morning,  and  then,  slowly 
waking  to  find  myself  here  in  dear  mamma's  place,  and  papa  watch 
ing  over  me.  Sometimes  I  think  I  have  not  half  understood  what 
it  really  is,  and  that  I  don't  realize,  that-  if  I  was  up  and  about,  J 
should  find  the  house  without  her.' 

'  Yes ;  that  is  the  aching  part ! '  said  Ethel.    '  I  am  happy,  sitting 


84  TirE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

on  her  bed  here  with  you.  You  are  a  little  of  hcr^  besides  being 
my  own  dear  Peg-top  !  You  arc  very  lucky  to  miss  the  meal-times 
and  the  evenings.' 

*  That  is  the  reason  I  don't  feel  it  wrong  to  like  to  have  papa 
Bitting  with  me  all  the  evening,'  said  Margaret, '  though  it  may  make 
it  worse  for  you  to  have  him  away.  I  don't  think  it  selfish  in  me  to 
keep  him.  He  wants  quiet  so  much,  or  to  talk  a  little  when  it  suita 
him  ;  we  are  too  many  now,  when  he  is  tired.'     • 

'  0,  it  is  best,'  said  Ethel.  '  Nothing  that  you  do  is  selfish— 
don't  talk  of  it,  dear  Margaret.  It  will  be  something  like  old  times 
when  30U  come  down  again.' 

'  But  all  this  time  you  are  not  telling  me  what  I  want  so  much 
to  hear,'  said  Margaret,  '  about  Cocksmoor.  I  am  so  glad  llichard 
has  taken  it  up.' 

'  That  he  has.  We  are  to  go  every  Friday,  and  hire  a  room, 
and  teach  the  children.  Once  a  week  will  do  a  great  deal,  if  wo 
can  but  make  them  wish  to  learn.  It  is  a  much  better  plan  than 
mine ;  for  if  they  care  about  it,  they  can  come  to  school  here  on 
Sunday.' 

'  It  is  excellent,'  said  Margaret, '  and  if  he  is  at  home  till  Easter, 
it  will  give  it  a  start,  and  put  you  in  the  way  of  it,  and  get  you 
through  the  short  days  and  dark  evenings,  when  you  could  not  50 
well  walk  home  without  him.' 

'  Yes,  and  then  we  can  all  teach;  Flora,  and  Mary,  and  you, 
when  you  are  well  again.  llichard  says  it  will  be  disagreeable,  but 
I  don't  think  so — they  are  such  unsophisticated  people.  That 
Granny  Hall  is  such  a  funny  old  woman  ;  and  the  whole  place  wants 
nothing  but  a  little  care,  to  do  very  well.' 

'  You  must  prepare  for  disappointments,  dear  Ethel.' 

'  I  know  ;  I  know  nothing  is  done  without  drawbacks ;  but  I  am 
60  glad  to  make  some  begiiming.' 

'  So  am  I.  Do  you  know  mamma  and  I  were  one  day  talking 
over  those  kind  of  things,  and  she  said  she  had  always  regretted 
that  she  had  so  many  duties  at  home,  that  she  could  not  attend  as 
much  to  the  poor  as  she  would  like ;  but  she  hoped  now  we  girls 
were  growing  up,  we  should  be  able  to  do  more.' 

*  l)id  she  ?  '  was  all  Ethel  said,  but  she  was  deeply  gratified. 

*  I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you.  I  knew  you  would  like  to  heai 
it.     It  seems  to  set  us  to  work  so  happily.' 

'  I  only  wish  we  could  begin,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  llichard  is  sa 
slow !  Of  course  we  can't  act  without  papa's  consent  and  Mr. 
Wilmot's  help,  and  he  says  papa  must  not  be  worried  about  it,  and 
he  must  watch  for  his  own  time  to  speak  about  it.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Margaret. 

'  I  know — I  would  not  liave  it  otherwise  ;  but  what  is  tiresonio 
is  this,  llichard  is  very  good,  but  he  is  so  dreadfully  hard  to  stir 
ip,  and  what's  worse,  so  very  much  afraid  of  papa,  that  while  he  is 


THE   DAISY    CIIAE^r.  5C 

tiiinking  about  opportunities,  they  will  all  go  by,  and  then  it  will 
be  Easter,  and  nothing  done  !  ' 

'  He  is  not  so  much  afraid  of  papa  as  he  was,'  said  Margaret 
'  He  has  felt  himself  useful  and  a  comfort,  and  papa  is  gentler ;  and 
that  has  cheered  him  out  of  the  desponding  way  that  kept  hiui  back 
from  proposing  anything.' 

'  Perhaps,' said  Ethel;  'but  I  wish  it  was  you.  Can't  you? 
you  always  know  how  to  manage,' 

<  No ;  it  is  Richard's  affair,  and  he  must  do  as  he  thinks  fit. 
Don't  sigh,  dear  Ethel — perhaps  he  may  soon  speak,  and,  if  not, 
you  can  be  preparing  in  a  quiet  way  all  the  time.  Don't  you  re- 
member how  dear  mamma  used  to  tell  us  that  things,  hastily  begun, 
never  turn  out  well  ? ' 

'  But  this  is  not  hasty.  I've  been  thinking  about  it  these  six 
weeks,'  said  Ethel.  '  If  one  does  nothing  but  think,  it  is  all  no 
better  than  a  vision.     I  want  to  be  doing.' 

'  Well,  you  can  be  doing — laying  a  sound  foundation,'  said 
Margaret.  '  The  more  you  consider,  and  the  wiser  you  make  your- 
self, the  better  it  will  be  when  you  do  set  to  work.' 

'  You  mean  by  curing  myself  of  my  slovenly  ways,  and  impatient 
temper  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  that  I  was  exactly  thinking  of  that,'  said  Margaret, 
'  but  that  ought  to  be  the  way.  If  we  are  not  just  the  thing  in  our 
niche  at  home,  I  don't  think  we  can  do  much  real  good  elsewhere.' 

'  It  would  be  hollow,  show-goodness,'  said  Ethel.  '  Yes,  that  is 
true  ;  and  it  comes  across  me  now,  and  then  what  a  horrid  wretch  I 
am,  to  be  wanting  to  undertake  so  much,  when  I  leave  so  much  un- 
done. But,  do  you  know,  Margaret,  there's  no  one  such  a  help  in 
those  ways  as  Richard.  Though  he  is  so  precise,  he  is  never  tire- 
some. He  makes  me  see  things,  and  do  them  neatly,  without 
plaguing  me,  and  putting  me  in  a  rage.  I'm  not  ready  to  bite  off 
my  own  fingers,  or  kick  all  the  rattle-traps  over  and  leave  them,  as 
I  am,  when  Miss  Winter  scolds  me,  or  nurse,  or  even  Flora  some- 
times ;  but  it  is  as  if  I  was  gratifying  him,  and  his  funny  little  old 
bachelor  tidyisms  divert  me  ;  besides,  he  teaches  me  the  theory,  and 
never  lays  hold  of  my  poor  fingers,  and,  when  they  won't  bend  the 
wrong  way,  calls  them  frogs.' 

'  He  is  a  capital  master  for  you,'  said  Margaret,  much  amused 
and  pleased,  for  Richard  was  her  especial  darling,  and  she  triumphed 
in  any  eulogy  from  those  who  ordinarily  were  too  apt  to  regard  his 
dullnes  with  superior  compassion. 

'  If  he  would  only  read  our  books,  and  enter  into  poetry  and 
delight  in  it ;  but  it  is  all  nonsense  to  him,'  said  Ethel.     '  I  can't 
think  how  people  can  be  so  different;    but   oh!  here    he    comes. 
Ritchie,  you  should  not  come  upon  us  before  we  are  aware.' 
'  What  ?     I  should  have  heard  no  good  of  myself  ?  ' 


86  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

Great  good,'  said  Margaret — '  she  was  telling  me  jou  would 
make  a  neat-banded  woman  of  her  in  time.' 

'I  don't  see  why  she  should  not  be  as  neat  as  other  people,'  said 
Ilichard,  gravely.     'Has  she  been  telling  you  of  our  plan  ?  ' 

And  it  was  again  happily  discussed ;  Ethel,  satistied  by  liudiu" 
him  fully  set  upon  the  design,  and  Margaret  giving  cordial  sym- 
pathy and  counsel.  Wlien  Ethel  was  called  away,  Margaret  said, 
'I  am  so  glad  you  have  taken  it  up,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  Cocks- 
moor,  but  of  Ethel.  It  is  good  for  her  not  to  spend  her  high  soul 
in  dreams.' 

'  I  am  afraid  she  docs  not  know  what  she  undertakes,'  said 
Richard. 

'  She  docs  not;  but  you  will  keep  her  from  beirg  turned  back. 
It  is  just  the  thing  to  prevent  her  energies  from  running  to  ^Yaste ; 
and  her  being  so  much  with  you,  and  working  under  you,  is  exactly 
what  one  would  ha^e  chosen.' 

'  By  contraries  !  '  said  Richard,  smiling.  '  That  is  what  I  wus 
afraid  of.  I  don't  half  understand  or  follow  her,  and  when  I  think- 
a  thing  nonsense,  I  see  you  all  calling  it  very  fine,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  it — ' 

'  You  are  making  yourself  out  more  dull  than  you  are,'  said 
Margaret,  affectionately.' 

'  I  know  I  am  stupid,  and  seem  tame  and  cold,'  said  Richard, 
'  and  you  are  the  only  one  that  does  not  care  about  it.  That  is 
what  makes  me  wish  Norman  was  the  eldest.  If  I  were  as  clever 
as  he,  I  could  do  so  much  with  Ethel,  and  be  so  much  more  to  papa.' 

'  Xo,  you  would  not.  You  would  have  other  things  in  your 
head.  You  would  not  be  the  dear,  dear  old  Ritchie  that  you  arc. 
You  would  not  be  a  calm,  cautious,  steady  balance  to  the  quicksilver 
heads  some  of  us  have  got.  No,  no,  Norman's  a  very  fine  fellow,  a 
very  dear  fellow,  but  he  would  not  do  half  so  well  fur  our  eldest — 
he  is  too  easily  up,  and  down  again.' 

'  And  I  am  getting  into  my  old  way  of  repining,'  said  Richard. 
*  I  don't  mind  so  much,  since  my  father  has  at  least  one  son  to  bo 
proud  of,  and  I  can  be  of  some  use  to  him  now.' 

'  Of  the  greatest,  and  to  all  of  us.  I  am  so  glad  j-ou  can  stay 
after  Christmas,  and  papa  was  pleased  at  your  offering,  and  said  he 
could  not  spare  you  at  all,  though  he  would  have  tried,  if  it  had 
been  any  real  advantage  to  you.' 

'Well,  I  hope  he  will  approve.  I  must  speak  to  him  as  soon  a.s 
I  can  find  him  with  his  mind  tolerably  disengaged.' 

The  scene  that  ensued  that  evening  in  the  Magic  Lantern  before 
Margaret's  bed,  did  not  promise  much  for  the  freedom  of  her  father's 
mind.  Harry  entered  with  a  resolute  manner.  '  ^Margaret,  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you,'  said  he,  spreading  himself  out,  with  an  elbow  on 
each  arm  of  the  chair.     '  I  want  you  to  speak  to  papa  about  my 


THE   DAISY    CHAEJ,  87 

going  to  sea.     It  is  high  time  to  see  about  it — I  shall  bo  thirtceu  on 
the  fourth  of  May.' 

*  And  you  mean  it  seriously,  Harry  ?  ' 

'Yes,  of  course  I  do,  really  and  truly;  and  if  it  is  to  come  to 
pass,  it  is  time  to  take  measures.     Don't  you  see,  Margaret  ? ' 

<  It  is  time,  as  you  say,'  answered  Margaret,  reflectingly,  and 
sadly  surveying  the  bright  boy,  rosy  cheeked,  round  faced,  and 
blue  eyed,  with  the  childish  gladsomeness  of  countenance,  that  made 
it  strange  that  his  lot  in  life  should  be  already  in  the  balance. 

'  I  know  what  you  will  all  tell  me,  that  it  is  a  hard  life,  but  I 
must  get  my  own  living  some  way  or  other,  and  I  should  like  that 
way  the  best,'  said  he,  earnestly. 

'  Should  you  like  to  be  always  far  from  home  ?  ' 

'  I  should  come  home  sometimes,  and  bring  such  presents  to 
Mary,  and  baby,  and  all  of  you;  and  I  dont  know  what  Jse  to  bo, 
Margaret.  I  should  hate  to  be  a  Doctor — I  can't  abide  sick  people ; 
and  I  couldn't  write  sermons,  so  I  can't  be  a  Clergyman ;  and  1 
won't  be  a  lawyer,  I  vow,  for  Harvy  Anderson  is  to  be  a  lawyer — so 
there's  nothing  left  but  soldiers  and  sailors,  and  I  mean  to  be  a 
sailor  !  ' 

"  Well,  Harry,  you  may  do  your  duty,  and  try  to  do  right,  if  you 
ftre  a  sailor,  and  that  is  the  point.' 

'  Aye,  I  was  sure  you  would  not  set  your  face  against  it,  now 
j^ou  know  Alan  Ernescliffe.' 

'  If  you  were  to  be  like  him — '  Margaret  found  herself  blushing, 
and  broke  off. 

'  Then  you  will  ask  papa  about  it  ?  ' 

'  You  had  better  do  so  yourself.  Boys  had  better  settle  such 
serious  affairs  with  their  fathers,  without  setting  their  sisters  to  in- 
terfere. What's  the  matter,  Harry — you  are  not  afraid  to  speak  to 
papa  ?  ' 

'  Only  for  one  thing,'  said  Harry.  '  Margaret,  I  went  out  to 
shoot  pee-wits  last  Saturday  with  two  fellows,  and  I  can't  speak  to 
papa  while  that's  on  my  mind.' 

'  Then  you  had  better  tell  him  at  once.' 

'  I  knew  you  would  say  so ;  but  it  would  be  like  a  girl,  and  it 
would  be  telling  of  the  two  fellows.' 

'  Not  at  all ;  papa  would  not  care  about  them.' 

'  You  see,'  said  Harry,  twisting  a  little,  '  I  knew  I  ought  not ; 
but  they  said  I  was  afraid  of  a  gun,  and  that  I  had  no  money. 
Now  I  see  that  was  chaff,  but  I  didn't  then,  and  Norman  wasn't 
there.' 

'  I  am  so  glad  you  have  told  me  all  this,  Harry  dear,  for  I  knew 
you  had  been  less  at  home  of  late,  and  I  was  almost  afraid  you  were 
not  going  on  quite  well.' 

'  That's  what  it  is,'  said  Harry.  '  I  can't  stand  things  at  all, 
and  I  can't  go  moping  about  as  Norman  does.     I  can't  live  without 


88  Tlin    DAISY    CHAIN. 

fun,  and  now  Noniiau  isn't  there,  half  the  time  it  turns  to  something 
I  am  sorry  for  afterwards.' 

*  But,  Harry,  if  you  let  yourself  be  drawn  into  mischief  here  for 
want  of  Norman,  what  would  you  do  at  sea?  ' 

'  I  should  be  an  officer  ! ' 

'  I  am  afraid,'  said  Margaret,  smiling,  *  that  would  not  make  much 
difTerencc  inside,  though  it  might  outside.  You  must  get  the  self- 
control,  and  leave  off  being  afraid  to  be  said  to  be  afraid.' 

Harry  fidgetted.  *  I  should  start  fresh,  and  be  out  of  the  way  of 
the  Andersons,'  he  said.  '  That  Anderson  junior,  is  a  horrid  follow — 
he  spites  Norman,  and  he  bullied  me,  till  I  was  big  enough  to  show 
him  that  it  would  not  do — and  though  I  am  so  much  younger,  he  is 
afraid  of  me.  lie  makes  up  to  me,  and  tries  to  get  me  into  all  the 
mischief  that  is  going.' 

'  And  you  know  that,  and  let  him  lead  you?     Oh,  Harry  ! ' 

'  I  don't  let  him  lead  me,'  said  Harry,  indignantly,  '  but  I  won't 
have  them  say  I  can''t  do  things.' 

Margaret  laughed,  and  Harry  presently  perceived  what  she  meant, 
but  instead  of  answering,  he  began  to  boast,  '  Tlierc  never  was  a 
May  in  disgrace  j-et,  and  there  never  shall  be.' 

*  That  is  a  thing  to  be  very  thankful  for,'  said  Margaret,  '  but  you 
know  there  may  be  much  harm  without  public  disgrace.  I  never 
heard  of  one  of  the  Anderson's  being  in  disgrace  yet.' 

'  No — shabby  fellows,  that  just  manage  to  keep  fair  with  old 
Hoxton,  and  make  a  show,'  said  Harry.  '  They  look  at  translations, 
and  copy  old  stock  verses.  0,  it  was  such  fun  the  other  day. 
What  do  you  think  ?  Norman  must  have  been  dreaming,  for  he  had 
taken  to  school,  by  mistake,  llichard's  old  Gradus  that  Ethel  uses, 
and  there  were  ever  so  many  rough  copies  of  hers  sticking  in  it.' 

'  Poor  Ethel !  What  consternation  she  would  be  in  !  I  hope  no 
one  found  it  out.' 

'  Why,  Anderson  junior,  was  gaping  about  in  despair  for  sense 
for  his  verses — he  comes  on  that,  and  slyly  copies  a  whole  set  of  her 
old  ones,  done  when  she — Norman  I  mean — was  in  the  fifth  form. 
His  subject  was  a  river,  and  hers  Babylon ;  but,  altering  a  line  or 
two,  it  did  just  as  well.  He  never  guessed  I  saw  him,  and  thought 
he  had  done  it  famously.  He  showed  them  up,  and  would  have  got 
some  noted  good  mark,  but  that,  by  great  good  luck,  Ethel  had  made 
two  of  her  pentameters  too  short,  which  he  hadn't  the  wit  to  find 
out,  thinking  all  Norman  did  must  be  right.  So  he  has  shown  up 
a  girl's  verses — isn't  that  rare?'  cried  llarry,  dancing  on  his  chair 
with  triumph. 

'  I  hope  no  one  knows  they  were  hers  ?  ' 

'  Bless  you,  no  ! '  said  Harry,  who  regarded  Ethel's  attainments 
as  something  contraband.  '  l>'ye  think  I  could  tell  ?  No,  that's  tho 
only  pity,  that  he  can't  hear  it;  but,  after  all,  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing he  does,  now  I  know  he  has  shown  up  a  girl's  verses/ 


THE   DAISY   CHArN-,  89 

*  Are  these  verses  of  poor  Ethel's  safe  at  home  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  took  care  of  that.  Mind  you  doii't  tell  anyone,  Margaret ; 
I  never  told  even  Xorman.' 

'  But  all  your  school-fellows  arn't  like  these  ?  You  have  Hector 
Ernescliffe.' 

*  He's  a  nice  fellow  enough,  but  he  is  little,  and  down  in  the  school 
'Twould  be  making  a  fourth  form  of  myself  to  be  after  him.  The 
fact  is,  Margaret,  they  are  a  low,  ungentlemanly  lot  just  now,  about 
sixth  and  upper  fifth  form,'  said  Harry,  lowering  his  voice  into  an 
anxious  confidential  tone ;  '  and  since  Norman  has  been  less  amongst 
them,  they've  got  worse ;  and  you  see,  now  home  is  different,  and  he 
isn't  like  what  he  was,  I'm  thrown  on  them,  and  I  want  to  get  out 
of  it.  I  didn't  know  that  was  it  before,  but  Richard  showed  me 
what  set  me  on  thinking  of  it,  and  I  see  she  knew  all  about  it.' 

'  That  she  did  !  There  is  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say,  Harry, 
but  you  know  she  thought  nothing  would  be  of  real  use  but  changing 
within.  If  you  don't  get  a  root  of  strength  in  yourself,  your  ship 
will  be  no  better  to  you  than  school — there  will  be  idle  midshipmen 
as  well  as  idle  school  boys.' 

'  Yes  I  know,'  said  Harry ;  '  but  do  you  think  papa  will  consent  ? 
She  would  not  have  minded.' 

'  I  can't  tell.  I  should  think  he  would  ;  but  if  any  scheme  is  to 
come  to  good,  it  must  begin  by  your  telling  him  of  the  going  out 
shooting.' 

Harry  sighed.  '  I'd  have  done  it  long  ago  if  she  was  here,'  he 
said.  '  I  never  did  anything  so  bad  before  without  telling,  and  I  don't 
like  it  at  all.  It  seems  to  come  between  him  and  me  when  I  wish 
him  good  night.' 

'  Then,  Harry,  pray  do  tell  him.  You'll  have  no  comfort  if  you 
don't.' 

'  I  know  I  shan't ;  but  then  he'll  be  so  angry  !  And,  do  you 
know,  Margaret,  'twas  worse  than  I  told  you,  for  a  covey  of  partridges 
got  up,  and  unluckily  I  had  got  the  gun,  and  I  fired  and  killed  one, 
and  that  was  regular  poaching,  you  know  !  And  when  we  heard 
some  one  coming,  how  we  did  cut !  Ax — the  other  fellow,  I  mean, 
got  it,  and  cooked  it  in  his  bed-room,  and  ate  it  for  supper ;  and  he 
laughs  about  it,  but  I  have  felt  so  horrid  all  the  week  !  Suppose  a 
keeper  had  got  a  summons  ! ' 

'  I  can  only  say  again,  the  only  peace  will  be  in  telling  him.' 

*  Yes  ;  but  he  will  be  so  angry.  When  that  lot  of  fellows  a  year 
or  two  ago,  did  something  like  it,  and  shot  some  of  the  Abbotstoke 
rabbits,  don't  you  remember  how  much  he  said  about  its  being  dis- 
graceful, and  ordering  us  never  to  have  anything  to  do  with  their 
gunnery  ?  And  he  will  think  it  so  very  bad  to  have  gone  out  on  a 
lark  just  now  !     0,  I  wish  I  hadn't  done  it.' 

'  So  do  I,  indeed,  Harry !  but  I  am  sure,  even  if  he  should  bo 
angry  at  first,  he  will  be  pleased  with  your  confessing.' 


yO  THE,   DAISV   CHAIN. 

Harry  looked  very  reluctant  and  disconsolate,  and  his  sister  did 
not  wonder — for  Dr.  May's  way  of  hearing  of  a  fault  was  never  to  he 
calculated  on.  '  Come,  Harry,'  said  she,  '  if  he  is  ever  so  angry, 
though  I  don't  think  he  will  be,  do  you  think  that  will  he  half  as 
bad  as  this  load  at  your  heart  ?  Besides,  if  you  are  not  bold  enough 
to  speak  to  him,  do  you  think  you  can  ever  be  brave  enough  for  a 
sailor  ?  ' 

*  I  will,'  said  Harry,  and  the  words  were  hardly  spoken,  before 
his  father's  hand  was  on  the  door.  He  was  laken  by  surprise  at  the 
moment  of  trial  coming  so  speedily,  and  had  half  a  mind  to  retreat 
by  the  other  door ;  he  was  stayed  by  the  reflection  that  Margaret 
would  think  him  a  coward,  unfit  for  a  sailor,  and  he  made  up  his 
aiind  to  endure  whatever  might  betide. 

'  Harry  here  ?     This  is  company  I  did  not  expect.' 

'  Harry  has  something  to  say  to  you,  papa.' 

'  Eh  !  my  boy,  what  is  it  ?  '  said  he,  kindly. 

'  Papa,  I  have  killed  a  partridge.  Two  fellows  got  me  to  hire  a 
gun,  and  go  out  shooting  with  them  last  Saturday,'  said  Harry, 
speaking  firmly  and  boldly  now  he  had  once  begun.  '  We  meant 
only  to  go  after  pee-wits,  but  a  partridge  got  up,  and  I  killed  it.' 

Then  came  a  pause.  Harry  stopped,  and  l)r.  May  waited,  half 
expecting  to  hear  that  the  boy  was  onl}'  brought  to  confession,  by 
finding  himself  in  a  scrape.  Margaret  spoke.  '  And  he  could  not 
be  happy  till  he  had  told  you.' 

'  Is  it  so  ?  Is  that  the  whole  ? '  said  the  Doctor,  looking  at  his 
son  with  a  keen  glance,  between  affection  and  inquiry,  as  if  only 
waiting  to  be  sure  the  confession  was  free,  before  he  gave  his  free 
forgiveness. 

'  Yes,  papa,'  said  Harry,  his  voice  and  lip  losing  their  firmness, 
as  the  sweetness  of  expression  ga-jned  the  day  on  his  father's  face. 
'  Only  that  I  know — 'twas  very  wrong — especially  now — and  I  am 
very  sorry — and  I  beg  your  pardon.' 

The  latter  words  came  between  sighs,  fast  becoming  sobs,  in  spite 
of  Harry's  attempts  to  control  them,  as  his  father  held  out  his  arm, 
and  drew  him  close  to  him.  '  That's  mamma's  own  brave  bo}-,'  he 
said  in  his  car — in  a  voice  wliich  strong  feeling  had  reduced  to  such 
a  whisper,  that  even  Margaret  could  not  hear — she  only  saw  how 
Harry,  sobbing  aloud,  clung  tiglitcr  and  tighter  to  him,  till  he 
paid,  '  Take  care  of  my  arm  ! '  and  Harry  sprung  back  at  least  a 
yard,  with  such  a  look  of  dismay,  that  the  Doctor  laughed.  *  No 
harm  done  ! '  said  he.  *  I  was  only  a  little  in  dread  of  sucli  a  young 
lion  !  Come  back,  Harry,'  and  he  took  his  hand.  '  It  was  a  bad 
l)iece  of  work,  and  it  will  never  do  for  you  to  let  yourself  be  drawn 
into  every  bit  of  mischief  tliat  is  on  foot;  I  believe  I  ought  to  give 
you  a  good  lecture  on  it,  but  I  can't  do  it,  after  such  a  straight- 
forward confession.  You  must  have  gone  through  enough  in  tha 
list  week,  not  to  be  likely  to  do  it  again.' 


THE   DAISY    CIIAIK.  91 

'  Yes,  papa — thank  you.' 

'  I  suppose  I  must  not  ask  you  any  questions  about  itj  fvir  fear  of 
betraying  the  fellows,'  said  Dr.  May,  half  smiling. 

'  Thank  you,  papa,'  said  Harry,  infinitely  relieved  and  grateful, 
and  qiiite  content  for  some  space  to  lean  in  silence  against  the  chair, 
with  that  encircling  arm  round  him,  while  some  talk  passed  between 
his  father  and  Margaret. 

AVhat  a  world  of  thought  passed  through  the  boy's  young  soul  in 
that  space  !  First,  there  was  a  thrill  of  intense,  burning  love  to  his 
father,  scarcely  less  fondness  to  his  sweet  motherly  sister ;  a  clinging 
feeling  to  every  chair  and  table  of  that  room,  which  seemed  still  full 
of  his  mother's  presence ;  a  numbering  over  of  all  the  others  with 
ardent  attachment,  and  a  flinging  from  him  with  horror  the  notion  of 
asking  to  be  far  away  from  that  dearest  father,  that  loving  home,  that 
arm  that  was  round  him.  Any  thing  rather  than  be  without  them  in  the 
dreary  world  !  But  then  came  the  remembrance  of  cherished  visions, 
the  shame  of  relinquishing  a  settled  purpose,  the  thought  of  weary 
morrows,  with  the  tempters  among  his  playmates,  and  his  home  blank 
and  melancholy  ;  and  the  roaming  spirit  of  enterprise  stirred  again, 
and  reproached  him  with  being  a  baby,  for  fancying  he  could  stay  at 
home  for  ever.  He  would  come  back  again  with  such  honours  as 
Alan  Ernescliffe  had  brought,  and  oh  !  if  his  father  so  prized  them 
in  a  stranger,  what  would  it  be  in  his  own  son  ?  Come  home  to  such 
a  greeting  as  would  make  vip  for  the  parting !  Harry's  heart  throbbed 
again  for  the  boundless  sea,  the  tall  ship,  and  the  wondrous  foreign 
climes,  whore  he  had  so  often  lived  in  fancy.  Should  he,  could  he 
speak ;  was  this  the  moment  ?  and  he  stood  gazing  at  the  fire, 
oppressed  with  the  weighty  reality  of  deciding  his  destiny.  At  last 
Dr.  May  looked  in  his  face, '  Well,  what  now,  boy?  You  have  your 
head  full  of  something — what's  coiuing  next?' 

Out  it  came,  '  Papa,  will  you  let  me  be  a  sailor  ? ' 

'  Oh  ! '  said  Dr.  May,  '  that  is  come  on  again,  is  it  ?  I  thought 
that  you  had  forgotten  all  that.' 

'  No,  Papa,'  said  Harry,  with  the  manly  coolness  that  the  sense 
of  his  determination  gave  him — '  it  was  not  a  mere  fancy,  and  I 
have  never  had  it  out  of  my  head.  I  mean  it  quite  in  earnest — I 
had  rather  be  a  sailor.  I  don't  wish  to  get  away  from  Latin  and 
Greek,  I  don't  mind  them ;  but  I  think  I  could  be  a  better  sailor 
than  anything.  I  know  it  is  not  all  play,  but  I  am  willing  to 
rough  it ;  and  I  am  getting  so  old,  it  is  time  to  see  about  it,  so  will 
you  consent  to  it,  papa  ?  ' 

'  Well !  there's  some  sense  in  your  way  of  putting  it,'  said  Dr. 
May.  '  You  have  it  strong  in  your  head  then,  and  you  know  'tia 
not  all  fair  weather  work  ! ' 

'  That  I  do ;  Alan  told  me  histories,  and  I've  read  all  about  it; 
but  one  must  rough  it  anywhere,  and  if  I  am  ever  so  far  away,  I'll 


92  THE    DAISY    CIIAIX. 

try  not  to  forget  wliat'a  right.  I'll  do  my  duty,  aud  not  care  for 
danger.' 

'  Well  said,  my  man ;  but  remember  'tis  easier  talking  by  one's 
own  fire-side,  than  doing  when  the  trial  comes.' 

'  And  will  you  let  me,  papa?  ' 

*  I'll  think  about  it.  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  as  "  quick  as 
directly,"  you  know,  Harry,'  said  his  father,  smiling  kindly,  '  but  I 
won't  treat  it  as  a  boy\s  fancy,  for  you've  spoken  in  a  manly  way, 
and  deserve  to  be  attended  to.'  '  Now  run  down,  and  tell  the  girls 
to  put  away  their  work,  for  I  shall  come  down  in  a  minute  to  read 
praj'ers.' 

Harry  went,  and  his  father  sighed  and  mused  !  '  That's  a  fine 
fellow  !  So  this  is  what  comes  of  bringing  sick  sailors  home — one's 
own  boys  must  be  catching  the  infection.  Little  monkey,  he  talks 
as  wisely  as  if  he  were  forty  I  lie  is  really  set  on  it,  do  you  think, 
Margaret  ?     I'm  afraid  so  I ' 

'  I  think  so,'  said  Margaret;  '  I  don't  think  he  ever  has  it  out 
of  his  mind  ! ' 

*  And  when  the  roving  spirit  once  lays  hold  of  a  lad,  he  must 
have  his  way — he  is  good  for  nothing  else,'  said  Dr.  May. 

'  I  suppose  a  man  may  keep  from  evil  in  that  profession,  as  well 
as  in  any  other,'  said  Margaret. 

'  Aha  !  you  are  bit  too,  are  you  ? '  said  the  Doctor ;  '  'tis  the 
husbandman  and  viper,  is  it  ?  Then  his  smile  turned  into  a  heavy 
sigh,  as  he  saw  he  had  brought  colour  to  Margaret's  pale  cheek, 
but  she  answered  calmly,  '  Dear  mamma  did  not  think  it  would  be 
a  bad  thing  for  him.' 

'  I  know,'  said  the  Doctor,  paiising ;  '  but  it  never  came  to  this 
with  her.' 

'  I  wish  he  had  chosen  something  else ;  but ' — and  Margaret 
thought  it  right  to  lay  before  her  father  some  part  of  what  he  had 
said  of  the  temptations  of  the  school  at  Stoneborough.  The  Doctor 
listened  aud  considered;  at  last  he  rose,  and  said,  '  Well,  I'll  set 
llitchie  to  write  to  Erncscliffe,  and  hear  what  he  says.  What  must 
be,  must  be.  'Tis  only  asking  me  to  give  up  the  boy,  that's  all;' 
and  as  he  left  the  room,  his  daughter  again  heard  his  sigh  and  half- 
uttered  words,  '  0  Majruie,  Maircie  ! ' 

J  Co       '  CO 


CHAPTER    X. 

'  A  tale 
Would  ronso  adventurous  courage  In  a  boy, 
And  innko  liiin  lung  to  be  n  mariner, 
That  ho  iiiiglit  rove  the  main.' 

SOUTHET. 


Etiilldriji)  Lad  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  Taylors  at  school  on 
Sunday,  but  no  Halls  made  their  appearance,  and,  on  iuquir}'^,  sha 


THE   DAISY   CUAEf,  \f6 

was  told,    Please  ma'am,  they  said  they  would  not  come ,     so  Ethel 
condemned  Granny  Hall  as  '  a  horrid,  rile,  false,  hypocritical  old 
creature  !     It  was  no  use  having  any  thing  more  to  do  with  her.' 
'  Very  well,'  said  Richard ;  '  then  I  need  not  speak  to  my  father  ' 
'  Ritchie  now  !  you  know  I  meant  no  such  thing  ! ' 

*  You  know,  it  is  just  what  will  happen  continually.' 

*  Of  course  there  will  be  failures,  but  this  is  so  abominable,  when 
they  had  those  nice  frocks,  and  those  two  beautiful  eighteen-penny 
shawls  !     There  are  three  shillings  out  of  my  pound  thrown  away  ! ' 

'  Perhaps  there  was  some  reason  to  prevent  them.  We  will  go 
and  see.' 

'  We  shall  only  hear  some  more  palavering.  I  want  ^o  have  no 
more  to  say  to — '  but  here  Ethel  caught  herself  up,  and  began  to 
perceive  what  a  happiness  it  was  that  she  had  not  the  power  of 
acting  on  her  own  impulses. 

'  The  twins  and  their  little  brother  of  two  years  old  were  Christ- 
ened in  the  afternoon,  and  Flora  invited  the  parents  to  drink  tea  in 
the  kitchen,  and  visit  Lucy,  while  Ethel  and  Mary  each  carried  a 
baby  up-stairs  to  exhibit  to  Margaret. 

Richard,  in  the  meantime,  had  a  conversation  with  John  Taylor, 
and  learnt  a  good  deal  about  the  district,  and  the  number  of  the 
people.  At  tea,  he  began  to  rehearse  his  information,  and  the 
Doctor  listened  with  interest,  which  put  Ethel  in  happy  agitation, 
believing  that  the  moment  was  come,  and  Richard  seemed  to  be  only 
waiting  for  the  conclusion  of  a  long  tirade  against  those  who  ought 
to  do  something  for  the  place,  when  behold  !  Blanche  was  climbing 
on  her  father's  knee,  begging  for  one  of  his  Sunday  stories. 

Etheldred  was  cruelly  disappointed,  and  could  not  at  first  rejoice 
to  see  her  father  able  again  to  occupy  himself  with  his  little  girl. 
The  narration,  in  his  low  tones,  roused  her  from  her  mood  of  vexa 
tion.  It  was  the  story  of  David,  which  he  told  in  language 
scriptural  and  poetical,  so  pretty  and  tender  in  its  simplicity,  that 
she  could  not  choose  but  attend.  Ever  and  anon  there  was  a  glance 
towards  Harry,  as  if  he  were  secretly  likening  his  own  '  yellow  haired 
laddie'  to  the  '  shepherd  boy,  rudd}",  and  of  a  fair  countenance.' 

'  So  Tom  and  Blanche,'  he  concluded,  '  can  you  tell  me  how  wo 
may  be  like  the  shepherd-boy,  David  ?  ' 

'  There  arn't  giants  now,'  said  Tom. 

'  Wrong  is  a  giant,'  said  his  little  sister. 

'  Right,  my  white  May-flower,  and  what  then  ? ' 

'  We  are  to  fight,'  said  Tom. 

'  Yes,  and  mind,  the  giant  with  all  his  armour  may  be  some 
great  thing  we  have  to  do  :  but  what  did  David  begin  with  when 
he  was  younger  ?  ' 

'  The  lion  and  the  bear.' 

'  Aye,  and  minding  his  sheep.  Perhaps  little  things,  now  you 
are  little  children,  may  be  like  the  lion  and  the  bear — so  kill  them 


94  Tin:  daisy  chain. 

off — get  rid  of  them — cure  yourself  of  whining  or  ihiwdling,  oi 
•whatever  it  be,  and  mind  your  sheep  well,'  said  he,  smiling  sweetly 
in  answer  to  the  children's  earnest  looks  as  they  caught  his  mean- 
ing, and  if  you  do,  you  will  not  find  it  near  so  hard  to  deal  with 
your  great  giant  struggle  when  it  comes.' 

All !  thought  Ethel,  it  suits  mc  as  well  as  the  children.  I  have 
a  great  giant  on  Cocksmoor,  and  here  I  am,  not  allowed  to  attack 
him,  because,  perhaps,  I  am  not  minding  my  .sheep,  and  letting  my 
lion  and  my  bear  run  loose  about  the  house. 

She  was  less  impatient  this  week,  partly  from  the  sense  of  being 
on  probation,  and  partly  because  she,  in  common  with  all  the  rest, 
was  much  engrossed  with  Harry's  fate.  He  came  home  every  day 
at  dinner-time  with  Norman  to  ask  if  Alan  Eruesclifle's  letter  had 
come ;  and  at  length  Mary  and  Tom  met  them  opeu-mouthed  with 
the  news  that  Margaret  had  it  in  her  room. 

Thither  they  hastened.  Margaret  held  it  out  with  a  smile  of 
congratulation.  '  Here  it  is,  Harry ;  papa  said  you  were  to  have 
it,  and  consider  it  well,  and  let  him  know,  when  you  had  taken 
time.     You  must  do  it  soberly.     It  is  once  for  all.' 

Harry's  impetuosity  was  checked,  and  he  took  the  letter  quietly. 
His  sister  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  '  Would  you  mind  my 
ki.s.^ing  you,  dear  Harry  ? '  and  as  he  threw  his  arms  round  her 
neck,  .she  whispered.  '  Pray  that  you  may  choose  right.' 

He  went  quietly  away,  and  Norman  begged  to  know  what  had 
been  Alan  ErnesclifiFe's  advice. 

'  I  can  scarcely  say  he  gave  any  direct  advice,'  said  Margaret ; 
'  he  would  not  have  thought  that  called  for.  He  said,  no  doubt 
there  were  hardships  and  temptations,  more  or  less,  according  to 
circumstances  ;  but,  weighing  one  thing  with  another,  he  thought 
it  gave  as  fair  a  chance  of  happiness  as  other  professions,  and  the 
discipline  and  regularity  had  been  very  good  for  himself,  as  well  as 
for  many  others  he  had  known.  He  said,  when  a  man  is  willing  to 
go  wrong  there  is  much  to  help  him,  but  when  he  is  resolved  ou 
doing  right,  ho  need  not  be  prevented.' 

'  That  is  what  you  may  say  of  anything,'  said  Norman. 

'  Just  so  ;  and  it  answered  papa's  question,  whether  it  was  ex- 
pn.sing  Harry  to  more  temptation  than  he  must  meet  with  anywhere. 
That  was  the  reason  it  was  such  a  comfort  to  have  any  one  to  write 
to,  who  understands  it  so  well.' 

'  Yes,  and  knows  Harry's  nature.' 

'  He  said  he  had  been  fortunate  in  his  captains,  and  had  led,  on 
the  whole,  a  happy  life  at  sea;  and  he  thought  if  it  was  so  with 
him,  Harry  was  likely  to  enjoy  it  more,  being  of  a  hardy  adven- 
turous nature,  and  a  sailor  from  choice,  not  from  circumstances.' 

'  Then  he  advised  for  it?  I  did  not  think  lie  would;  you  know 
he  will  not  let  Hector  be  a  sailor.' 

*  He  told  me  he  thought  only  a  strong  natural  bent  that  way 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  95 

made  it  desirable,  and  tliat  lie  believed  Hector  only  -wished  it  from 
imitation  of  him.  He  said  too,  long  ago,  that  he  thought  Harry 
cut  out  for  a  sailor.' 

'  A  spirited  fellow ! '  said  Norman,  with  a  look  of  saddened 
pride  and  approval,  not  at  all  like  one  so  near  the  same  age.  '  He 
is  up  to  anything,  afraid  of  nothing,  he  can  lick  any  boy  in  the 
school  already.     It  will  be  worse  than  ever  without  him  ! ' 

'  Yes,  you  will  miss  your  constant  follower.  He  has  been  your 
shadow  ever  since  he  could  walk.  But  there's  the  clock,  I  must 
not  keep  you  any  longer;  good-bye,  Norman.' 

Harry  gave  his  brother  the  letter  as  soon  as  they  were  outside 
the  house,  and  while  he  read  it,  took  his  arm  and  guided  him. 
'  Well,'  said  Norman  as  he  finished. 

'  It  is  all  right,'  said  Harry ;  and  the  two  brothers  said  no  more ; 
there  was  something  rising  up  in  their  throats  at  the  thought  that 
they  had  very  few  more  walks  to  take  together  to  Bishop  Which- 
cote's  school ;  Norman's  heart  was  very  full  at  the  prospect  of 
another  vacancy  in  his  home,  and  Harry's  was  swelling  between 
the  ardour  of  enterprise  and  the  thought  of  bidding  good-bye  to 
each  familiar  object,  and,  above  all,  to  the  brother  who  had  been 
his  model  and  admiration  from  babyhood. 

'  June  ! '  at  length  he  broke  out, '  I  wish  you  were  going  too.  I 
should  not  mind  it  half  so  much  if  you  were.' 

'  Nonsense,  Harry  !  j^ou  want  to  be  July  after  June  all  your  life, 
do  you  ?     You'll  be  much  more  of  a  man  without  me.' 

That  evening  Dr.  May  called  Harry  into  his  study  to  ask  him 
if  his  mind  was  made  up ;  he  put  the  subject  fairly  before  him,  and 
told  him  not  to  be  deterred  from  choosing  what  he  thought  would 
be  for  the  best  by  any  scruples  about  changing  his  mind.  '  We  shall 
not  think  a  bit  the  worse  of  you ;  better  now  than  too  late.' 

There  was  that  in  his  face  and  tone  that  caused  Harry  to  say, 
in  a  stifled  voice,  '  I  did  not  think  you  would  care  so  much,  papa ;  I 
won't  go,  if  you  do.' 

Dr.  May  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  was  silent.  Harry  felt 
a  strange  mixture  of  hope  and  fear,  joy  and  grief,  disappointment  and 
relief.  '  You  must  not  give  it  up  on  that  account,  my  dear,'  he  said 
at  length ;  '  I  should  not  let  you  see  this,  if  it  did  not  happen  at  a 
time  when  I  can't  command  myself  as  I  ought.  If  you  were  an  only 
son,  it  might  be  your  duty  to  stay ;  being  one  of  many,  'tis  nonsense 
to  make  a  rout  about  parting  with  you.  If  it  is  better  for  you,  it 
is  better  for  all  of  us;  and  we  shall  do  very  well  when  you  are  once 
fairly  gene.     Don't  let  ihat  influence  you  for  a  moment.' 

Harry  paused,  not  that  he  doubted,  but  he  was  collecting  his 
energies — '  Then,  papa,  I  choose  the  Navy.' 

'  Then  it  is  done,  Harry.  You  have  chosen  in  a  dutiful  unsel- 
fish spirit,  and  I  trust  it  will  prosper  with  you ;  for  I  am  sure  your 
father's  blessing — aye,  and  your  mother's,  too,  go  with  you !     Now 


06  TUE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

then,'  after  a  pause,  '  go  and  call  Richard.  I  want  him  to  write  to 
Erni'sc-liffe  about  that  naval  school.  You  must  take  your  leave  of 
the  Whiuhcote  foundation  on  Friday.  I  shall  go  and  give  Dr.  llox- 
ton  notice  to-morrow,  and  get  Tom's  name  down  instead.' 

And  when  the  name  of  Thomas  May  was  set  down.  Dr.  Iloxton 
expressed  his  trust  that  it  would  pass  through  the  school  as  free  from 
the  slightest  blemish  as  those  of  llichard,  Norman,  and  Harry  May, 

Now  that  Harry's  destiny  -was  fixed,  Ethel  began  to  tliiuk  of 
Cocksmoor  again,  and  she  accomplished  another  walk  there  with 
llichard,  Flora,  and  Mary,  to  question  Granny  Hall  about  the  chil- 
dren's failure. 

The  old  woman's  reply  was  a  tissue  of  contradictions :  the  girls 
wore  idle  hussies,  all  conirary  ;  they  plagued  the  very  life  out  of  her, 
and  she  represented  herself  as  using  the  most  frightful  threats,  if  they 
would  not  go  to  school.  Breaking  every  bone  in  their  skin  was  the 
least  injury  she  promised  them  ;  till  Mary,  beginning  to  think  her  a 
cruel  old  woman,  took  hold  of  her  brother's  coat-tails  for  protection. 

'  But  I  am  afraid,  Mrs.  Hall,'  said  Richard,  in  that  tone  whieli 
might  be  either  ironical  or  simple,  '  if  you  served  them  so,  they 
would  never  be  able  to  get  to  school  at  all,  poor  things.' 

'  Bless  you,  Sir,  d'ye  think  I'd  ever  lay  a  finger  near  them  ;  it's 
only  the  way  one  must  talk  to  children,  you  see,'  said  she,  patron- 
izing his  inexperience. 

'  Perhaps  they  have  found  that  out,'  said  Richard. 

Granny  looked  much  entertained,  and  laughed  triumphantly  and 
shrewdly,  '  aye,  aye,  that  they  have,  the  lasses — they  be  sharp 
enough  for  anything,  iliat  they  be.  AV' hy,  when  I  tell  little  Jenny 
that  there's  the  black  man  coming  after  her,  what  does  she  do  but  she 
ups  and  says,  '  Granny,  I  know  'tis  only  the  wind  in  the  chimney.' 

'  Then  1  don't  think  it  seems  to  answer,'  said  Richard.  *  Just 
suppose  you  were  to  try  for  once,  really  punishing  them  when  they 
won't  obey  you,  perhaps  they  would  do  it  next  time.' 

'  Why,  Sir,  you  see  I  don't  like  to  take  the  stick  to  them ;  they've 
got  no  mother,  you  see,  Sir.' 

Mary  thought  her  a  kind  grandmother,  and  came  out  from  be- 
hind her  brother. 

'  I  think  it  would  be  kind  to  do  it  for  once.  What  do  you 
think  they  will  do  as  they  grow  older,  if  you  don't  keep  them  in  or- 
der when  they  are  little  'i  ' 

This  was  foresight  beyond  Granny  Hall,  who  began  to  expatiate 
GO  the  troubles  she  had  undergone  in  their  service,  and  the  excel- 
lence of  Sam.  There  was  certainly  a  charm  in  her  manners,  for  Ethel 
forgot  her  charge  of  ingratitude,  the  other  sisters  were  perfectly  taken 
with  her,  nor  could  they  any  of  them  help  giving  credence  to  her  as- 
KeviTutious  that  Jenny  and  Polly  should  come  to  school  next  Sunday. 

They  soon  formed  another  acijuaintancc ;  a  sharp-faced  womar» 
etood  in  their  path,  with  a  little  girl  in  her  hand,  and  arrested  therq 


THE   DAISY    CHADf.  97 

with  a  low  curtsey,  and  cot  a  very  pleasant  voice,  addressing  her- 
self to  Flora,  who  was  quite  as  tall  as  Richard,  and  appeared  the 
person  of  most  consequence. 

'  If  you  please.  Miss,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.  I  have  got  a 
little  girl  here,  and  I  want  to  send  her  to  school,  only  I  have  no 
shoes  for  her.' 

'  Why,  surely,  if  she  can  run  about  here  on  the  heath,  she  can 
go  to  school,'  said  Flora. 

'  Oh  !  but  there  is  all  the  other  children  to  point  at  her.  The 
poor  thing  would  be  daunted,  you  see.  Miss  ;  if  I  could  but  get  some 
friend  to  give  her  a  pair  of  shoes,  I'd  send  her  in  a  minute.  I  want 
her  to  get  some  learning ;  as  I  am  always  saying,  I'd  never  keep 
her  away,  if  I  had  but  got  the  clothes  to  send  her  in.  I  never  lets 
her  be  running  on  the  common  like  them  Halls,  as  it's  a  shame  to 
see  them  in  nice  frocks,  as  Mrs.  Hall  got  by  going  hypercriting 
about.' 

'  What  is  your  name  ? '  said  Pilchard,  cutting  her  short. 

'  Watts,  if  you  please,  Sii*;  we  heard  there  was  good  work  up 
here.  Sir,  and  so  we  came ;  but  I'd  never  have  set  foot  in  it  if  I  had 
known  what  a  dark  heathenish  place  it  is,  with  never  a  Gospel  min- 
ister to  come  near  it,'  and  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

Mary  whispered  to  Flora  something  about  having  out-grown  her 
boots,  but  Flora  silenced  her  by  a  squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  the  two 
friends  of  Cocksmoor  felt  a  good  deal  puzzled. 

At  last  Flora  said,  '  You  will  soon  get  her  clothed  if  she  comes 
regularly  to  school  on  Sundays,  for  she  will  be  admitted  into  the 
club  ;  I  will  recommend  her  if  she  has  a  good  character  and  comes 
regularly.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Watts  Now  we  must  go,  or  it  will 
be  dark  before  we  get  home.     And  they  walked  hastily  away. 

'  Horrid  woman  ! '  was  Ethel's  exclamation. 

'  But,  Flora,'  said  innocent  Mary,  '  why  would  you  not  let  me 
give  the  little  girl  my  boots  ?  ' 

'  Perhaps  I  may,  if  she  is  good  and  comes  to  school,'  said  Flora. 

'  I  think  Margaret  ought  to  settle  what  you  do  with  your  boots,' 
said  Richard,  not  much  to  Flora's  satisfaction. 

'  It  is  all  the  same,'  she  said.  '  If  I  approve,  Margaret  will  not 
object.' 

'  How  well  you  helped  us  out.  Flora,'  said  Ethel ;  '  I  did  not 
know  in  the  least  what  to  say.' 

'  It  will  be  the  best  way  of  testing  her  sincerity,'  said  Flora,  '  and 
at  least  it  will  do  the  child  good ;  but  I  congratulate  you  on  the 
promising  aspect  of  Cocksmoor.'       * 

'  We  did  not  expect  to  find  a  perfect  place,'  said  Ethel;  'if  it 
were,  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  go  to  it.' 

Ethel  could  answer  with  dignity,  but  her  heart  sunk  at  the 
aspect  of  what  she  had  undertaken.  She  knew  there  would  be  evil, 
but  she  had  expected  it  in  a  ui^re  strikiDk  and  less  disagreeable  form. 
YoL.  1.-5 


08 


nil:    DAISY    CIIAEN-. 


That  walk  ccrtaiuly  made  her  less  impatient,  though  it  did  no* 
relax  her  determination, nor  the  guard  over  her  lion  aird  bear,  whieb 
her  own  good  feeling,  aided  by  Margaret's  counsel,  showed  her  were 
the  greatest  hindrances  to  her  doing  anything  good  and  great. 

Though  she  was  obliged  to  set  to  work  so  many  principles  and 
reflections  to  induce  herself  to  wipe  a  pen,  or  to  sit  straifrht  on  her 
chair,  that  it  was  like  winding  up  a  steam-engine  to  thread  a  needle  • 
yet  tiic  work  teas  being  done — she  was  struggling  with  her  faults, 
humbled  by  them,  watching  them,  and  overcoming  them. 

Flora,  meanwhile,  was  sitting  calmly  down  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  unexpected  services  she  had  rendered,  confident  that  her 
character  for  energy  and  excellence  was  established,  believing  it 
herself,  and  looking  back  on  her  childish  vanity  and  love  of  domi- 
neering as  long  past  and  conquered.  She  thought  her  growu-up 
character  had  begun,  and  was  too  secure  to  examine  it  closely. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

••One  lliing  is  wantin":  in  the  beamy  cup 

Of  my  yoiins  lil'e!  "no  thing  to'be  pourej  In; 
Aye,  andjme  thiiiji  is  wnntinji  to  fill  up 
The  measure  of 'proud  joy,  and  make  It  &in.' 

F.  W.  F. 

Hopes  that  Dr.  May  would  ever  have  his  mind  free,  seemed  as 
fallacious  as  mamma's  old  promise  to  Margaret,  to  make  dolls' 
clothes  for  her  whenever  there  should  be  no  live  dolls  to  be  worked 
for  in  the  nursery. 

Pilchard  and  Ethel  themselves  had  their  thoughts  otherwise  en- 
grossed. The  last  week  before  the  holidays  was  an  important  one. 
There  was  an  examination,  by  which  the  standing  of  the  boys  in  the 
fx-hool  was  determined,  and  this  time  it  was  of  more  than  ordinary 
importance,  as  the  Eandall  scholarship  of  £100  a  year  for  three 
years  would  be  open  in  the  summer  to  the  comjjetition  of  the  first 
six  boys.  Richard  had  never  come  within  six  of  the  top,  but  had 
been  past  at  every  examination  by  younger  boys,  till  his  father  could 
boar  it  no  longer ;  and  now  Norman  was  too  j'oung  to  be  likely  to 
have  much  chance  of  being  of  the  number.  There  were  eight  de- 
cidedly his  seniors,  and  Harvey  Anderson,  a  small,  quick-witted  boy, 
half  a  year  older,  who  had  entered  school  at  the  same  time,  and  had 
always  been  one  step  below  him,  had,  in  the  last  three  mouths, 
gained  fast  upon  him. 

Harry,  however,  meant  Xorman  to  be  one  of  the  six,  and  de- 
clared all  the  fellows  thought  he  would  be,  except  Anderson's  party. 
Mr.  Wilraot,  in  a  call  on  Ethel  and  Flora,  told  them  that  he  thought 
their  brother  had  a  fair  ohonco,  but  he  feared  he  was  overworking 


THE    DAISY    chad;.  99 

himself,  and  should  tell  the  Doctor  so,  whenever  he  could  catch  him; 
but  this  was  difficult,  as  there  was  a  great  deal  of  illness  just  then, 
and  he  was  less  at  home  than  usual. 

All  this  excited  the  home  party,  but  Norman  only  seemed 
annoyed  by  talk  about  it,  and  though  always  with  a  book  in  his 
hand,  was  so  dreamy  and  listless,  that  Flora  declared  there  was  no 
fear  of  his  doing  too  much — she  thought  he  would  fail  for  want  of 
trying. 

'  I  mean  to  try,'  said  Norman;   'say  no  more  about  it,  pray.' 

The  great  day  was  the  20th  of  December,  and  Ethel  ran  out,  as 
the  boys  went  to  school,  to  judge  of  Norman's  looks,  which  were 
not  promising.  '  No  wonder,'  said  Harry,  since  he  had  stayed  up 
doing  Euripides  and  Cicero  the  whole  length  of  a  candle  that  had 
been  new  at  bed-time.  '  But  never  mind,  Ethel,  if  he  only  beats 
A-nderson,  I  don't  care  for  anything  else.' 

*  0,  it  will  be  unbearable  if  he  does  not !    Do  try,  Norman,  dear.'' 

'  Never  you  mind.' 

'  He'll  light  up  at  the  last  moment,'  said  Ethel,  consolingly,  to 
Harry ;  but  she  was  very  uneasy  herself,  for  she  had  set  her  heart 
on  his  surpassing  Harvey  Anderson.  No  more  was  heard  all  day. 
Tom  went  at  dinner-time  to  see  if  he  could  pick  up  any  news ;  but 
he  was  shy,  or  was  too  late,  and  gained  no  intelligence.  Dr.  May 
and  Richard  talked  of  going  to  hear  the  speeches  and  vivcl  voce 
examination  in  the  afternoon — objects  of  great  interest  to  all  Stone- 
borough  men — but  just  as  they  came  home  from  a  long  day's  work, 
Dr.  May  was  summoned  to  the  next  town,  by  an  electric  telegraph, 
and,  as  it  was  to  a  bad  case,  he  did  not  expect  to  be  at  home  till 
the  mail-train  came  in  at  one  o'clock  at  night.  Richard  begged  to 
go  with  him,  and  he  consented,  unwillingly,  to  please  3Iargaret,  who 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  his  '  fending  for  himself  in  the  dark  on 
the  rail-road. 

Very  long  did  the  evening  seem  to  the  listening  sisters.  Eight, 
and  no  tidings  ;  nine,  the  boys  not  come ;  Tom  obliged  to  go  to  bed 
by  sheer  sleepiness,  and  Ethel  unable  to  sit  still,  and  causing  Flora 
demurely  to  wonder  at  her  fidgetting  so  much,  it  would  be  so  much 
better  to  fix  her  attention  to  some  employment;  while  ^Margaret 
owned  that  Flora  was  right,  but  watched,  and  started  at  each  sound, 
almost  as  anxiously  as  Ethel. 

It  was  ten,  when  there  was  a  sharp  pull  at  the  bell,  and  down 
flew  the  sisters ;  but  old  James  was  beforehand,  and  Harry  was 
exclaiming,  'Dux!  James,  he  is  Dux!  Hurrah!  Flossy,  Ethel, 
Mary  !     There  stands  the  Dux  of  Stoneborough  !    Where's  papa  ?  ' 

'  Sent  for  to  Whitford.    But  oh  !  Norman,  Dux  !  Is  he  really  ?  ' 

'  To  be  sure,  but  I  must  tell  Margaret ; '  and  up  he  rushed, 
shouted  the  news  to  her,  but  could  not  stay  for  congratulation ; 
broke  Tom's  slumber  by  roaring  it  in  his  ear,  and  dashed  into  the 
nursery,  where  nurse  for  once  forgave  him  for  waking  the  baby 


100  I  TIIK    DAISY    CJIAIX. 

Norman,  mcunwliile,  followed  bis  eager  sisters  into  the  drawing* 
room,  putting  up  his  hand  as  if  the  light  dazzled  him,  and  looking, 
by  no  means,  as  if  he  had  just  achieved  triumphant  success. 

Ethel  paused  in  her  exultation  :  '  But  is  it,  is  it  true,  Norman  ?  ' 
'  Yes,'  he  said,  wearily,  making  his  way  to  his  dark  corner. 

*  ]Jut  what  was  it  for  V     How  is  it  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  know,'  he  answered. 

'  "What's  the  matter  ? '  said  Flora.  '  Are  you  tired,  Norman, 
icar  ;  does  your  head  ache  ?  ' 

*  Yes ;  '  and  the  pain  was  evidently  severe. 

'  Won't  you  come  to  ]\Iargaret  ?  '  said  Ethel,  knowing  what  was 
tlie  greater  suffering ;  but  he  did  not  move,  and  they  forbore  to 
torment  him  with  questions.  The  next  moment  Harry  came  down 
in  an  ecstacy,  bringing  in,  from  the  hall,  Norman's  beautiful  prize- 
books,  and  showing  off  their  Latin  inscription. 

*  Ah  !  '  said  he,  looking  at  his  brother, '  he  is  regularly  done  for. 
He  ought  to  turn  in  at  once.  That  Everard  is  a  famous  fellow  for 
an  examiner.  He  said  he  never  had  seen  such  a  copy  of  verses  sent 
up  by  a  school-boy,  and  could  hardly  believe  June  was  barely  six- 
teen. Old  Hoxton  says  he  is  the  youngest  Dux  they  have  had 
these  fifty  years  that  he  has  known  the  school,  and  Mr.  Wilmot  said 
'twas  the  most  creditable  examination  he  had  ever  known,  and  that 
I  might  tell  papa  so.  What  did  possess  that  ridiculous  old  land- 
lubber at  Whitford,  to  go  and  get  on  the  sick-list  on  this,  of  all  the 
nights  of  the  year  ?  June,  how  can  you  go  on  sitting  there,  when 
you  know  you  ought  to  be  in  your  berth  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  he  was,'  said  Flora,  '  but  let  him  have  some  tea  first.' 

'  And  tell  us  more,  Harry,'  said  Ethel.  '  Oh  !  it  is  famous  !  I 
knew  he  would  come  right  at  last.  It  is  too  delightful,  if  papa  was 
but  here  ! ' 

'  Isn't  it  ?  Y'^ou  should  have  seen  how  Anderson  grinned — he  is 
only  fourth — down  below  Forder,  and  Cheviot,  and  Ashe.' 

'  Well,  I  did  not  think  Norman  would  have  been  before  Forder 
and  Cheviot.     That  is  grand.' 

'  It  was  the  verses  that  did  it,'  said  Harry ;  they  had  an  hour  to 
do  Thomistocles  on  the  hearth  of  Admetus,  and  there  he  beat  them 
all  to  shivers.  'Twas  all  done  smack,  smooth,  without  a  scratch,  in 
Alcaics,  and  Cheviot  heard  Wilmot  saying,  'twas  no  mere  task,  but 
had  poetry,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  in  it.  But  I  don't  know 
whether  that  would  havi  done,  if  he  had  not  come  out  so  strong  in 
the  recitation;  they  jiut  him  on  in  Priam's  speech  to  Achilles,  and 
he  said  it — Oli !  'twas  too  bad  papa  did  not  hear  him  1  Every  one 
held  their  breath  and  listened.' 

'  How  you  do  go  on  !  '  muttered  Norman  ;  but  no  one  heeded, 
and  Harry  continued:  'He  construed  a  chorus  in  Sophocles  with- 
out a  blunder  ;  but  what  did  the  business  was  this,  1  believe.  They 
asked  all  manner  of  out-of-the-way  questions— history  and  geogra- 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN .  101 

pliy,  what  no  one  expected,  and  the  fellows  who  read  nothing  they 
can  help,  were  thoroughly  posed.  Forder  had  not  a  word  to  say, 
and  the  others  were  worse,  for  Cheviot  thought  Queen  Elizabeth'a 
Earl  of  Leicester  was  Simon  de  Montfort ;  and  didn't  know  when 
that  battle  was,  beginning  with  an  E. — was  it  Evesham,  or  Edge- 
hill  ? ' 

*  0  Harry,  you  are  as  bad  yourself?  ' 

'  But  anyone  would  know  Leicester,  because  of  Kenilworth,' 

said  Harry ;  '  and  I'm  not  sixth  form.  If  papa  had  but  been  there  ! 

Everyone  was  asking  for  him,  and  wishing  it.     For  Dr.  Hoxton 

called  me — they  shook  hands  with  me,  and  wished  me  joy  of  it,  and 

•  told  me  to  tell  my  father  how  well  Norman  had  done.' 

'  I  suppose  you  looked  so  happily,  they  could  not  help  it,'  said 
Flora,  smiling  at  that  honest  beaming  face  of  joy. 

'  Aye,'  said  Norman,  looking  up ;  '  they  had  something  to  say 
to  him  on  his  own  score,  which  he  has  forgotten.' 

.  '  I  should  think  not,'  said  Harry.  '  Why,  what  d'ye  think  they 
said  ?  That  I  had  gone  on  as  well  as  all  the  Mays,  and  they  trusted 
I  should  still,  and  be  a  credit  to  my  profession.' 

'  Oh  !  Harry  !  why  didn't  you  tell  us  ?  Oh  !  that  is  grand  ! ' 
and,  as  the  two  elder  girls  made  this  exclamation,  Mary  proceeded 
to  a  rapturous  embrace.  '  Get  along,  Mary,  you  are  throttling  one. 
Mr.  Everard  enquired  for  my  father  and  Margaret,  and  said  he'd 
call  to-morrow,  and  Hoxton  and  Wilmot  kept  on  wishing  he  was 
there,' 

'  I  wish  he  had  been  ! '  said  Ethel ;  '  he  would  have  taken  such 
delight  in  it ;  but,  even  if  he  could  have  gone,  he  doubted  whether 
it  would  not  have  made  Norman  get  on  worse  from  anxiety.' 

'  "Well,  Cheviot  wanted  me  to  send  up  for  him  at  dinner-time,' 
said  Harry ;  '  for  as  soon  as  we  sat  down  in  the  hall,  June  turned 
off  giddy,  and  could  not  stay,  and  looked  so  horrid,  we  thought  it 
was  all  over  with  him,  and  he  would  not  be  able  to  go  up  at  all.' 

'  And  Cheviot  thought  you  ought  to  send  for  papa ! ' 

'  Yes,  I  knew  he  would  not  be  in,  and  so  we  left  him  lying  down 
on  the  bench  in  the  cloister  till  dinner  was  over.' 

*  What  a  place  for  catching  cold  ! '  said  Flora. 

*  So  Cheviot  said,  but  I  couldn't  help  it;  and  when  we  went  to 
call  him  afterwards,  he  was  all  right.  Wasn't  it  fun,  when  the 
names  were  called  over,  and  May  senior,  at  the  head  !  I  don't 
think  it  will  be  better  when  I  am  a  post-captain  myself!  But 
Margaret  has  not  heard  half  yet.' 

After  telling  it  once  in  her  room,  once  in  the  nursery,  in  whis- 
pers like  gusts  of  wind,  and  once  in  the  pantry,  Harry  employed 
himself  in  writing — '  Norman  is  Dux ! '  in  immense  letters,  on 
pieces  of  paper,  which  he  disposed  all  over  the  house,  to  meet  the 
ayes  of  his  father  and  Richard  on  their  return. 

Ethel's  joy  was  sadly  danr.ped  by  Norman's  manner     He  harily 


103  THE   DAISY    ClIAIX. 

spoke — ouly  just  came  in  to  wisli  Margaret  good-night,  and  shrank 
from  her  affectionate  sayings,  departing  abruptly  to  his  own  room. 

'  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  sadly  overdone,'  said  she,  as  he  went. 

'  Oh  !  '  sighed  Ethel,  nearly  ready  to  or}',  '  'tis  not  like  what 
I  used  to  fancy  it  would  be  when  he  came  to  the  head  of  the  school ! ' 

'  It  will  bo  different  to-morrow,' said  Margaret,  trying  to  console 
herself  as  well  as  Ethel.  '  Think  how  he  has  been  on  the  strain 
this  whole  day,  and  long  before,  doing  so  much  more  than  older 
boys.     No  wonder  he  is  tired  and  worn  out.' 

Ethel  did  not  understand  what  mental  fatigue  was,  for  her 
active,  vigorous  spirit  had  never  been  tasked  beyond  its  powers. 

'  I  hope  he  will  be  like  himself  to-moirow  ! '  said  she,  diseonso' 
lately.  'I  never  saw  him  rough  and  hasty  before.  It  was  even 
with  you,  Margaret.' 

'  No,  no,  Ethel,  you  arn't  going  to  blame  your  own  Norman  for 
unkindness  on  this  of  all  days  in  the  year.  You  know  how  it  was  ; 
you  love  him  better;  just  as  I  do,  for  not  being  able  to  bear  to  stay 
in  this  room,  where — ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel,  mournfully ;  '  it  was  a  great  shame  of  me ! 
How  could  I  ?  Dear  Norman  !  how  he  does  grieve — what  love  his 
must  have  been !  But  j'ct,  Margaret,'  she  said,  impatiently,  and 
the  hot  tears  breaking  out,  '  I  cannot — cannot  bear  it !  To  have 
him  not  caring  one  bit  for  all  of  us  !  I  want  him  to  triumph  !  I 
can't  without  him  !  ' 

'  What,  Ethel,  you,  who  said  you  didn't  care  for  mere  distinc- 
tion and  praise  ?  Don't  you  think  dear  mamma  would  say  it  was 
safer  for  him  not  to  be  delighted  and  triumphant  ?  ' 

'  It  is  very  tiresome,'  said  Ethel,  nearly  convinced,  but  in  a 
slightly  petulant  voice. 

'  And  docs  not  one  love  those  two  dear  boys  to-night!'  said 
Margaret.  '  Noi-man,  not  able  to  rejoice  in  his  victory  without  her, 
and  Harry  in  such  an  ccstacy  with  Norman's  honours.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  was  so  fond  of  my  two  brothers.' 

Ethel  smiled,  and  drew  up  her  head,  and  said  no  boys  were  liko 
them  anywhere,  and  papa  would  be  delighted,  and  so  went  to  bed 
happier  in  her  exultation,  and  in  hoping  that  the  holidays  would 
make  Norman  himself  again. 

Nothing  could  be  better  news  for  Dr.  May,  who  had  never  lost: 
a  grain  of  the  ancient  school-party-loyalty  that  is  part  of  the  nature 
of  the  English  gentleman.  He  was  a  thorough  Stoncborough 
boy,  had  followed  the  politics  of  the  Whichcote  foundation  year  by 
year  all  his  life,  and  perhaps,  in  his  heart,  regarded  no  honour  as 
more  to  be  prized  than  that  of  Du.x  and  llandall  scholar.  Harry 
was  in  his  room  the  next  morning  as  soon  as  ever  he  was  stirring,  a 
welcome  guest — teased  a  little  at  first,  by  his  pretending  to  take  it 
all  as  a  sailor's  prank  to  hoax  him  and  Richard,  and  then  free  to 


THE   DAISY   CHAW.  103 

pour  out  to  delighted  ears  the  wliole  hist-ory  of  the  examination, 
and  of  everyone's  congratulations. 

Norman  himself  was  asleep  when  Harry  went  to  give  this  narration. 
Ho  came  down  late,  and  his  father  rose  to  meet  him  as  he  entered. 
'  My  boy,'  he  sai-d. '  I  had  not  expected  this  of  you.  Well  done,  Nor- 
man !  '  and  the  whole  tone  and  gesture  had  a  hearffelt  approval  and 
joy  in  them,  that  Ethel  knew  her  brother  was  deeply  thrilled  by,  for 
his  colour  deepened,  and  his  lips  quivered  into  something  like  a  smile, 
though  he  did  not  lift  his  eyes. 

Then  came  Richard's  warm  greeting  and  congn\tulation,  ae,  too, 
showing  himself  as  delighted  as  if  the  honours  were  his  own  ;  and  then 
Dr.  May  again,  in  lively  tones,  like  old  times,  laughing  at  Norman  for 
sleeping  late,  and  still  not  looking  well  awake,  asking  him  if  he  was 
quite  sure  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 

'  Well,'  said  Norman, '  I  should  think  it  was,  if  it  were  not  that 
you  all  believe  it.' 

'  Harry  had  better  go  to  sleep  next,'  said  Dr.  May,  •  and  see  what 
dreaming  will  make  him.  If  it  makes  Dux  of  Norman,  who  knows 
but  it  may  make  Drakes  of  him  ?  Ha  !  Ethel — 

'  0,  give  ns  for  our  Kings  such  Queens, 
And  for  our  Ducks  such  Drakes.' 

There  had  not  been  such  a  merry  breakfast  for  months.  There 
was  the  old  confusion  of  voices ;  the  boys,  Richard,  and  the  Doctor 
had  much  to  talk  over  of  the  school  doings  of  this  week,  and  there  was 
nearly  as  much  laughing  as  in  days  past.  Ethel  wondered  whether 
anyone  but  herself  observed  that  the  voice  most  seldom  heard  was 
Norman's. 

The  promised  call  was  made  by  Dr.  Hoxton,  and  Mr.  Everard,  an 
old  friend,  and  after  their  departure  Dr.  May  came  to  Margaret's  room 
with  fresh  accounts,  corroborating  what  Harry  had  said  of  the  clear 
knowledge  and  brilliant  talent  that  Norman  had  displayed,  to  a  deo-ree 
that  surprised  his  masters,  almost  as  much  as  the  examiners.  The  copy 
of  verses  Dr.  May  brought  with  him,  and  construed  them  to  Margaret, 
commenting  all  the  way  on  their  ease,  and  the  fulness  of  thought,  cer- 
tainly remarkable  in  a  boy  of  sixteen. 

They  were  then  resigned  to  Ethel's  keeping,  and  she  could  not  help 
imparting  her  admiration  to  their  author,  with  some  apology  for  vex- 
ing him  again. 

'  I  don't  want  to  be  cross,'  said  Norman,  whom  these  words  roused 
to  a  sense  that  he  had  been  churlish  last  night ;  '  but  T  cannot  help  it. 
I  wish  people  would  not  make  such  a  fuss  about  it.' 

'  I  don't  think  you  can  be  well,  Norman.' 

'  Nonsense.     There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me.' 

*  But  I  don't  understand  your  not  caring  at  all,  and  not  being  tho 
least  pleased.' 

'  It  only  makes  it  worse,'  said  Norman ;  '  I  only  feel  as  if  I  wanted 


104  TlIK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

to  be  out  of  the  way.  My  only  comfortable  time  yesterday  was  or 
that  boncli  in  the  cool  quiet  cloister.  I  don't  think  I  could  have  got 
through  without  that,  when  they  left  me  in  peace,  till  Cheviot  and  liar 
ry  came  to  rout  luc  up,  and  I  knew  it  was  all  coming.' 

'  Ah !  you  have  overworked  yourself,  but  it  was  for  something. 
You  have  given  papa  such  pleasure  and  comfort,  as  you  can't  help  be- 
ing glad  of.  That  is  very  different  from  us  foolish  young  ones  and 
our  trumpeting.' 

'  What  comfort  can  it  be  ?  I've  not  been  the  smallest  use  all  thia 
time.  When  he  was  ill,  I  left  him  to  Ernescliffe,  and  lay  on  the  floor 
like  an  ass ;  and  if  he  were  to  ask  me  to  touch  bis  arm,  I  should  be  aa 
bad  again.  A  fine  thing  for  me  to  have  talked  all  that  arrogant  stuff 
about  llichard  !  I  hate  the  thought  of  it;  and,  as  if  to  make  arrows 
and  ])arbs  of  it,  here's  llichard  making  as  much  of  this  as  if  it  wa.s 
a  double  first  class  !  He  afraid  to  be  compared  with  me,  indeed  ! ' 

'  Norman,  indeed,  this  is  going  too  far.  We  can't  be  as  useful  as 
the  elder  ones ;  and  when  you  know  how  papa  was  vexed  about  Rich- 
ard, you  must  be  glad  to  have  pleased  him.' 

'  If  I  were  he,  it  would  only  make  me  miss  her  more.  I  believe  he 
only  makes  much  of  me  that  he  may  not  disappoint  me.' 

'  I  don't  think  so.  He  is  really  glad,  and  the  more  because  she 
would  have  been  so  pleased.  He  said  it  would  have  been  a  happy  day 
for  her,  and  there  was  more  of  the  glad  look  than  the  sorry  one.  It 
was  the  glistening  look  that  comes  when  he  is  watching  baby,  or  hear- 
ing IMargarct  say  pretty  things  to  her.  You  see  it  is  the  first  bright 
morning  we  have  had.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Norman  ;  '  perhaps  it  was,  but  I  don't  know.  I  thought 
half  of  it  was  din.' 

'  Oh  Norman  ! ' 

'  And  another  thing,  Ethel,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had  fairly  earned 
it.  Forder  or  Cheviot  ought  to  have  had  it.  They  are  both  mor6 
really  good  scholars  than  I  am,  and  have  always  been  above  me. 
There  was  nothing  I  really  knew  better,  except  those  historical  ques- 
tions that  no  one  reckoned  on  ;  and  not  living  at  home  with  their  sis- 
ters and  books,  they  had  no  such  chance,  and  it  is  very  hard  on  theni; 
and  I  don't  like  it.' 

'  \Vell,  but  you  really  and  truly  beat  them  in  everything.' 

'  Aye,  by  chance.  There  were  lots  of  places  in  construing,  where 
I  should  have  broken  down  if  I  had  happened  to  be  set  on  in  them  ;  it 
was  only  a  wonder  I  did  not  in  that  chorus,  for  I  had  only  looked  at 
it  twice;  but  Evcrard  asked  me  nothing  but  what  I  knew  ;  and  now 
and  then  I  get  into  a  funny  state,  when  nothing  is  too  hard  for  me, 
and  tliat  was  how  it  was  yesterday  evening,  (ienerally,  I  feel  as  dull 
as  apost,'  said  Norman,  yawning  and  stretching;  '  I  could  not  make 
a  nonsense  hexameter  this  minute,  if  I  was  to  die  for  it.' 

'  A  sort  of  Bcrserkar  fury ! '  said  Ethel,  '  like  that  night  you  did 


THE   DAISY    CHAK-f.  105 

the  coral-worm  verses.     It's  very  odd.     Are  you  sure  you  are  well 
dear  Norman  ? ' 

To  which  he  answered,  with  displeasui  e,  that  he  was  as  well  as  pos- 
sible, ordered  her  not  to  go  and  make  any  more  fuss,  and  left  her 
hastily.  She  was  unhappy,  and  far  from  satisfied ;  she  had  never 
known  his  temper  so  much  affected,  and  was  much  puzzled ;  but  she 
was  too  much  afraid  of  vexing  him,  to  impart  her  perplexity  even  to 
Margaret.  However,  the  next  day,  Sunday,  as  she  was  reading  to 
Margaret  after  Church,  her  father  came  in,  and  the  first  thing  he 
said  was,  '  I  want  to  know  what  you  think  of  Norman.' 

'  How  do  you  mean  ?  '  said  Margaret ;  '  in  health  or  spirits  ? '  _ 

'  Both,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  Poor  boy  !  he  has  never  held  up  his 
head  since  October,  and,  at  his  age,  that  is  hardly  natural.  He  goes 
moping  about,  has  lost  flesh  and  appetite,  and  looks  altogether  out 
of  order,  shooting  up  like  a  May-pole  too.' 

'  Mind  and  body,'  said  Margaret,  while  Ethel  gazed  intently  at  her- 
father,  wondering  whether  she  ought  to  speak,  for  Margaret  did  not 
know  half  what  she  did ;  nothing  about  the  had  nights,  nor  what  he 
-called  the  '  funny  state.' 

'  Yes,  both.  I  fancied  it  was  only  his  rapid  growth,  and  the  ex- 
citement of  this  examination,  and  that  it  would  go  off,  but  I  think 
there's  more  amiss.  He  was  lounging  about  doing  nothing,  when  the 
girls  were  gone  to  school  after  dinner,  and  I  asked  him  to  walk  down 
with  me  to  the  Almshouses.  He  did  not  seem  very  willing,  but  he 
went,  and  presently,  as  I  had  hold  of  his  arm,  I  felt  him  shivering, 
and  saw  him  turn  as  pale  as  a  sheet.  As  soon  as  I  noticed  it,  he 
flushed  crimson,  and  would  not  hear  of  turning  back,  stoutly  protest- 
ing he  was  quite  well,  but  I  saw  his  hand  quivering  even  when  I  got 
into  Church.     "Why,  Ethel,  you  have  turned  as  red  as  he  did.' 

'  Then  he  has  d)ne  it ! '  exclaimed  Ethel,  in  a  smothered  voice. 

'  "What  do  you  mean  ?    Speak,  Ethel.' 

'  He  has  gone  past  it — the  place,'  whispered  she. 

The  Doctor  made  a  sound  of  sorrowful  assent,  as  if  much  struck; 
then  said,  '  You  don't  mean  he  has  never  been  there  since  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel,  '  he  has  always  gone  round  Randall's  alley  or 
the  garden ;  he  has  said  nothing,  but  has  contrived  to  avoid  it.' 

'  Well,'  said  Dr.  May,  after  a  pause,  '  I  hoped  none  of  us  knew 
the  exact  spot.' 

'  We  don't;  he  never  told  us,  but  he  was  there.' 

'  Was  he  ?  '  exclaimed  her  father ;  '  I  had  no  notion  of  that.  How 
came  he  there  ?  ' 

'  He  went  on  with  Mr.  Ernescliffe,  and  saw  it  all,'  said  Ethel,  as 
her  father  drew  out  her  words,  apparently  with  his  eye ;  '  and  then 
came  up  to  my  room  so  faint  that  he  was  obliged  to  lie  on  the  floor 
ever  so  long.' 

'  Faint — how  long  did  it  last  ?  '  said  her  father,  examining  hei 
without  apparent  emotion,  as  if  it  had  been  an  indifferent  patient. 
Vol.  I.— 5* 


IOC)  THE   DAISY    CIIArN-. 

'  I  don't  know,  things  scemod  so  long  that  evening.  Till  after  dark 
at  least,  and  it  came  on  in  the  morning — no,  the  3Ionday.  I  believe  it 
was  your  arm — for  talking  of  going  to  see  you  always  brought  it  on,  till 
Mr.  Ward  gave  him  a  dose  of  brandy-and-water,  and  that  stopped  it. 

'  I  wish  I  had  known  this  before.  Derangement  of  the  nervous 
Bystem,  no  doubt — a  susceptible  boy  like  that — I  wonder  what  sor< 
of  nights  he  has  been  having.' 

'  Terrible  ones,'  said  Ethel ;  '  I  don't  think  he  ever  sleeps  quietly 
till  morning;  he  has  dreams,  and  he  groans  and  talks  in  his  sleep: 
Harry  can  tell  you  all  that.' 

'  lilcss  me  !  '  cried  Dr.  3Iay,  in  some  anger;  '  what  have  you  all 
l)cen  tliinking  about  to  keep  this  to  yourselves  all  this  time  !  ' 

'  lie  could  not  bear  to  have  it  mentioned,'  said  Ethel,  timidly; 
'  and  I  didn't  know  that  it  signified  so  much ;  does  it  ?  ' 

'  It  signifies  so  much,  that  I  had  rather  have  given  a  thousand 
pounds  than  have  let  him  go  on  all  this  time,  to  be  overworked  at 
school,  and  wound  up  to  that  examination !  ' 

'  Oh  dear  !  I  am  sorry  ! '  said  Ethel,  in  great  dismay.  '  If  you  had 
but  been  at  home  when  Cheviot  wanted  Harry  to  have  sent  for  you 
— because  he  did  not  think  him  fit  for  it !  '  And  Ethel  was  much  re- 
lieved by  pouring  out  all  she  knew,  though  her  alarm  was  by  no  means 
lessened  by  the  effect  it  produced  on  her  father,  especially  when  he 
heard  of  the  "  funny  state."  ' 

'  A  fine  state  of  things,'  he  said  ;  '  I  wonder  it  has  not  brought  on 
a  tremendous  illness  by  this  time.  A  boy  of  that  sensitive  tempera- 
ment meeting  with  such  a  shock — never  looked  after — the  quietest  and 
most  knocked  down  of  all,  and  therefore  the  most  neglected — his 
whole  system  disordered — and  then  driven  to  school  to  be  harassed 
and  overworked  ;  if  we  wanted  to  occasion  a  brain  fever  we  could  not 
have  gone  a  better  way  to  set  about  it.'  I  should  not  wonder  if 
health  and  nerves  were  damaged  for  life  !  ' 

'  Oh  !  papa,  papa ! '  cried  Ethel,  in  extreme  distress,  '  what 
shall  I  do !     I  wish  I  had  told  you,  but — ' 

'  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Ethel,  you  knew  no  better,  but  it  has 
been  grievous  neglect.  It  is  plain  enough  there  is  no  one  to  see 
after  you,'  said  the  Doctor  with  a  low  groan. 

'  We  may  be  taking  it  in  time,'  said  Margaret's  soft  voice — '  it 
is  very  well  it  has  gone  on  no  longer.' 

*  Three  months  is  long  enough,'  said  Dr.  May. 

*  1  suppose,'  continued  Margaret,  '  it  will  be  better  not  to  let 
dear  Norman  know  we  are  uneasy  about  him.' 

'  No,  no,  certainly  not.  Don't  say  a  word  of  this  to  him.  I  shall 
find  Harry,  and  ask  about  these  disturbed  nights,  and  then  watch 
him,  trusting  it  may  not  have  been  gone  too  far;  but  there  must  be 
dreadful  excitability  of  brain  ! ' 

He  went  away,  leaving  Margaret  to  comfort  Ethel  as  well  as 
pho  could,  by  showing  her  tliat  he  had  not  said  the  mischief  was 


'fiii:  DAISY  cHArs-.  107 

done,  putting  Lev  in  mind  that  he  was  wont  to  speak  strongly ;  and 
trying  to  make  her  thankful  that  her  brother  -would  now  have  such 
care  as  might  avert  all  evil  results. 

'  But,  oh,'  said  Ethel,  '  his  success  has  been  dearly  purchased  ! ' 


CHAPTER    XII. 

'  It  hatli  <3o  me  niochil  woe.' 
'Yea  hath  it?    tJfe,'  quod  he,  'this  medicine; 
Kvery  daift  this  Maie  or  that  thou  dine. 
Go  lokin  in  upon  the  freshe  daisie. 
And  though  thou  be  for  woe  in  poinct  to  die. 
That  shalffuU  gretly  lessen  thee  of  thy  pine.' 

CnAtJCEK. 

1  HAT  night  Norman  started  from,  what  was  not  so  much  sleep  as  a 
tiance  of  oppression  and  suffering,  and  beheld  his  father's  face 
watching  him  attentively. 

'  Papa  !  What's  the  matter  ?  '  said  he,  starting  it  up.  '  Is  any- 
one ill  ? ' 

'  No  ;  no  one,  lie  down  again,'  said  Dr.  May,  possessing  himself 
of  a  hand,  with  a  burning  spot  in  the  palm,  and  a  throbbing  pulse. 

'  But  what  made  you  come  Kere  ?  Have  I  disturbed  anyone  ? 
Have  I  been  talking  ?  ' 

'  Only  mumbling  a  little,  but  you  looked  very  uncomfortable.' 

•  But  I'm  not  ill — -what  are  you  feeling  my  pulse  for  ? '  said 
Norman,  uneasily. 

'  To  see  whether  that  restless  sleep  has  quickened  it.' 

Norma, ■",  scarcely  let  his  father  count  for  a  moment,  before  ho 
asked,  '  "What  o'clock  is  it  ?  ' 

'  A  little  after  twelve.' 

'  What  does  make  you  stay  up  so  late,  papa  ?  ' 

'  I  often  do  when  my  arm  seems  likely  to  keep  me  awake. 
Richard  has  done  all  I  want.' 

'  Pray  don't  stay  here  in  the  cold,'  said  Norman,  with  feverish 
impatience,  as  he  turned  upwards  the  cool  side  of  his  pillow.  '  Good 
night ! ' 

'  No  hurry,'  said  his  father,  still  watching  him. 

*  There's  nothing  the  matter,'  repeated  the  boy. 
'  Do  you  often  have  such  unquiet  nights  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  it  does  not  signify.  Good  night,'  and  he  tried  to  look 
settled  and  comfortable. 

'  Norman,'  said  his  father,  in  a  voice  betraying  much  grief,  '  it 
will  not  do  to  go  on  in  this  way.  If  your  mother  was  here,  you 
would  not  close  yourself  against  hei\' 

Norman  interrupted  him  in  a  voice  strangled  with  sobs :  'It  is 
no  good  saying  it — I  thought  it  would  only  make  it  worse  for  you ; 
but  that's  it.     I  cannot  bear  the  being  without  her.' 


lOS  TIIK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

Dr.  May  was  glad  to  see  that  a  gush  of  tears  followed  this  ex 
clamation,  as  Norman  hid  his  face  under  the  coverings. 

*  My  poor  boy,'  said  he,  hardly  able  to  speak,  '  only  One  can 
comfort  you  truly  ;  but  you  must  not  turn  from  me  ;  you  must  let 
me  do  what  I  can  for  you,  though  it  is  not  the  same.' 

*  I  thought  it  would  grieve  you  more,'  said  Norman,  turning 
his  face  toward  him  again. 

'  What,  to  find  my  children  feeling  with  me,  and  knowing  what 
they  have  lost  ?     Surely  not,  Norman.' 

'  And  it  is  of  no  use,'  added  Norman,  hiding  his  face  again,  *  no 
one  can  comfort — ' 

'  There  you  are  wrong,'  said  Dr.  May  with  deep  feeling,  '  there 
is  much  of  comfort  in  c^-fcrything,  in  everybody,  in  kindness,  in  all 
around,  if  one  can  only  open  one's  mind  to  it.  But  I  did  not  come 
to  keep  you  awake  with  such  talk ;  I  saw  you  were  not  quite  well, 
so  I  came  up  to  see  about  you ;  and  now,  Norman,  you  will  not 
refuse  to  own  that  something  is  the  matter.' 

'  I  did  not  know  it,'  said  Norman,  '  I  really  believe  I  am  well, 
if  I  could  get  rid  of  these  horrible  nights.  I  either  lie  awake, 
tumbling  and  to.ssing,  or  I  get  all  sorts  of  unbearable  dreams.' 

'  Aye,  Avhen  I  asked  master  Harry  about  you,  all  the  answer 
I  could  get  was,  that  he  was  quite  used  to  it,  and  did  not  mind  it 
at  all.  As  if  I  asked  for  his  sake !  How  fast  that  boy  sleeps — 
he  is  fit  for  a  midshipman's  berth  ! ' 

'  But  do  you  think  there  is  anything  amiss  with  me  ?  ' 
'  I  shall  know  more  about  that  to-morrow  morning.     Come  to 
my  room  as  soon  as  you  are   up,  unless  I  come  to  you.     Now, 
I  have  something  to  read  before  I  go  to  bed,  and  I  may  as  well  try 
if  it  will  put  you  to  sleep.' 

Norman's  last  sight  that  night  was  of  the  outlines  of  his  father's 
profile,  and  he  was  scarcely  awake  the  next  morning  before  Dr.  May 
was  there  again. 

Unwilling  as  he  had  been  to  give  way,  it  was  a  relief  to  relin 
qui.sh  the  struggle  to  think  himself  well,  and  to  venture  to  lounge 
and  dawdle,  rest  his  heavy  head,  and  stretch  his  inert  limbs  with- 
out fear  of  remark.  His  father  found  him  after  breakfast  lying  on 
the  .sofa  in  the  drawing-room  with  a  Greek  play  by  his  side,  telliu^ 
Ethel  what  words  to  look  out.  *' 

'  At  it  again !  '  exclaimed  Dr.  May.  '  Carry  it  away,  Ethel. 
I  will  have  no  Latin  or  Greek  touched  these  holidays.' 

'  You  know,'  said  Norman,  '  if  I  don't  sap,  I  shall  have  no  chance 
of  keeping  up.' 

'  You'll  keep  no  w^here,  if  you  don't  rest.' 

*  It  is  only  Euripides,  and  I  can't  do  anything  else,'  said  Nor- 
juau,  languidly. 

'  Very  likely,  1  don't  care.  \''ou  have  to  get  well  first  of  all, 
and  the  Greek  will  take  care  of  itself     Go  up  to  Margaret.     I  put 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  109 

you  in  her  keeping,  while  I  am  gone  to  Whitford.  After  that, 
I  dare  say  Richard  will  be  very  glad  to  have  a  holiday,  and  let  you 
drive  me  to  Abbots oke.' 

Norman  rose,  and  wearily  walked  up  stairs,  while  his  sister  lin- 
gered to  excuse  herself,  '  Papa,  I  do  not  think  Euripides  would 
hurt  him — ^he  knows  it  all  so  well,  and  he  said  he  could  not  read 
anything  else.' 

'  Just  so,  Ethel.  Poor  fellow,  he  has  not  spirits  or  energy  for 
anything;  his  mind  was  forced  into  those  classicalities  when  it 
wanted  rest,  and  now  it  has  not  spring  enough  to  turn  back  again.' 

'  Do  you  think  him  so  very  ill  ?  ' 

'  Not  exactly,  but  there's  low  fever  hanging  about  him,  and  we 
must  look  after  him  well,  and  I  hope  we  may  get  him  right.  I  have 
told  Margaret  about  him ;  I  can't  stop  any  longer  now.' 

Norman  found  the  baby  in  his  sister's  room,  and  this  was  just 
what  suited  him.  The  Daisy  showed  a  marked  prefcTence  for  her 
brothers ;  and  to  find  her  so  merry  and  good  with  him,  pleased 
and  flattered  him  far  more  than  his  victory  at  school.  He  carried 
her  about,  danced  her,  whistled  to  her,  and  made  her  admire  her 
pretty  blue  eyes  in  the  glass  most  successfully,  till  nurse  carried 
her  oif.  But  perhaps  he  had  been  sent  up  rather  too  soon,  for  as 
he  sat  in  the  great  chair  by  the  fire,  he  was  teased  by  the  constant 
coming  and  going,  all  the  petty  cares  of  a  large  household  trans- 
acted by  Margaret — orders  to  butcher  and  cook — Harry  racing  in 
to  ask  to  take  Tom  to  the  river — Tom,  who  was  to  go  when  his 
lesson  was  done,  coming  perpetually  to  try  to  repeat  the  same  un- 
happy bit  of  As  in  Frcesenti,  each  time  in  a  worse  whine. 

'  How  can  you  bear  it,  Margaret  ?  '  said  Norman,  as  she  finally 
dismissed  Tom,  and  laid  down  her  account-book,  taking  up  some 
delicate  fancy  work.  '  Mercy,  here's  another,'  as  enter  a  message 
about  lamp  oil,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mary  burst  in  to  beg  Mar- 
garet to  get  Miss  Winter  to  let  her  go  to  the  river  with  Harry  and 
Tom. 

'  No,  indeed,  Mary,  I  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing.  You 
bad  better  go  back  to  your  lessons,  and  don't  be  silly,'  as  she  lo-oked 
much  disposed  to  cry. 

'  No  one  but  a  Tom-boy  would  dream  of  it,'  added  Norman , 
and  Mary  departed  disconsolate,  while  Margaret  gave  a  sigh  of 
weariness,  and  said,  as  she  returned  to  her  work,  '  There,  I  believe 
I  have  done.  I  hope  I  was  not  cross  with  poor  Mary,  but  it  was 
rather  too  much  to  ask.' 

'  I  can't  think  how  you  can  help  being  cross  to  everyone,'  said 
Norman,  as  he  took  away  the  books  she  had  done  with. 

'  I  am  afraid  I  am,'  said  Margaret,  sadly.  '  It  does  get  trying 
at  times.' 

'  I  should  think  so  This  eternal  worrying  mus  ;  be  more  than 
anyone  can  bear,  always  lying  there  too.' 


110  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

*  It  is  only  now  .ind  then  that  it  grows  tiresome,'  said  Margaret 
'  I  am  too  happy  to  be  of  some  use,  and  it  is  too  bad  to  repine,  but 
sometimes  a  feeling  comes  of  its  being  always  the  same,  as  if  a 
little  change  would  be  such  a  treat.' 

'  Arn't  you  very  tired  of  lying  in  bed  ? ' 

'  Yes,  very  sometimes.  I  fancy,  but  it  is  only  fancy,  that  1 
could  move  better  if  I  was  up  and  dressed.  It  has  seemed  more  so 
lately,  since  I  have  been  stronger.' 

*  When  do  you  think  they  will  let  you  get  up  ? ' 

'  There's  the  question.  I  believe  papa  thinks  I  might  be  lifted 
to  the  sofa  now — and  oh !  how  I  long  for  it — but  then  Mr.  Ward 
does  not  approve  of  my  sitting  up,  even  as  I  am  doing  now,  8.nd 
wants  to  keep  me  flat.  Papa  thinks  that  of  no  use,  and  likely  to 
hurt  my  general  health,  and  I  believe  the  end  of  it  will  be  that  ho 
will  ask  Sir  Matthew  Fleet's  opinion.' 
Is  that  the  man  he  calls  Mat  ? ' 

'  Yes,  you  know  they  went  through  the  University  together,  and 
were  at  Edinburgh  and  Paris,  but  they  have  never  met  since  he  set 
up  in  London,  and  grew  so  famous.  I  believe  it  would  be  a  great 
treat  to  papa  to  have  him,  and  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  papa  too  ; 
I  don't  think  his  arm  is  going  on  right — he  does  not  trust  to  Mr. 
Ward's  treatment,  and  I  am  sure  some  one  else  ought  to  see  it.' 

'  Did  you  know,  Margaret,  that  he  sits  up  quite  late,  because  he 
cannot  sleep  for  it  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  hear  him  moving  about,  but  don't  tell  him  so  ;  I  would 
not  have  him  guess  for  the  world,  that  it  kept  me  awake.' 

'■  And  does  it  ?  ' 

'  Why,  if  I  think  he  is  awake  and  in  pain,  I  cannot  settle  myself 
to  sleep,  but  that  is  no  matter ;  having  no  exercise,  of  course  I  don't 
sleep  so  much.  But  I  am  very  anxious  about  him — he  looks  so  thin, 
and  gets  so  fagged — and  no  wonder.' 

'  Ah  !  Mr.  Everard  told  me  he  was  quite  shocked  to  sec  him,  and 
would  hardly  have  known  him,'  and  Norman  groaned  from  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart. 

'  Well,  I  shall  hope  much  from  Sir  Matthew's  taking  him  in  hand,' 
said  Margaret,  cheerfully;  'he  will  mind  him,  though  he  will  not 
Mr.  Ward.' 

'  I  wish  the  holidays  were  over !  '  said  Norman,  with  a  yawn,  as 
expressive  as  a  sigh. 

'  That's  not  civil,  on  the  third  day,'  said  Margaret,  smiling,  '  when 
I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  to  look  after  me,  so  as  to  set  Flora  at  liberty. 

*  What,  can  I  do  you  any  good  ?  '  said  Norman,  with  a  shade  of 
his  former  alacrity. 

'  To  be  sure  you  can,  a  great  deal.  Better  not  come  near  me 
otherwise,  for  I  make  everyone  into  a  slave.  I  want  my  morning 
reading  now,  that  book  on  Advent,  there.' 

'  Shall  I  read  it  to  you  ? ' 


THE   DAISY    CHATS.  Ill 

'  Thank  you,  that's  nice,  and  I  shall  get  on  with  baby's  frock.' 

Norman  read,  but,  ere  long,  took  to  yawning ;  Margaret  begged 
for  the  book,  which  he  willingly  resigned,  saying,  however,  that  he 
liked  it,  only  he  was  stupid.  She  read  on  aloud,  till  she  heard  a  suc- 
cession of  heavy  breathings,  and  saw  him  fast  asleep,  and  so  he  con- 
tinued till  waked  by  his  father's  coming  home. 

Richard  and  Ethel  were  glad  of  a  walk,  for  Margaret  had  found 
them  a  pleasant  errand.  Their  Cocksmoor  children  could  not  go 
home  to  dinner  between  service  and  afternoon  school,  and  Margaret 
had  desired  the  cook  to  serve  them  up  some  broth  in  the  back  kitchen, 
to  which  the  brother  and  sister  were  now  to  invite  them.  Mary  was 
allowed  to  take  her  boots  to  Rebekah  Watts,  since  Margaret  held 
that  goodness  had  better  be  profitable,  at  least  at  the  outset ;  and 
Harry  and  Tom  joined  the  party. 

Norman,  meantime,  was  driving  his  father — a  holiday  preferment 
highly  valued  in  the  days  when  Dr.  May  used  only  to  assume  the 
reins,  when  his  spirited  horses  showed  too  much  consciousness  that 
they  had  a  young  hand  over  them,  or  when  the  old  hack  took  a  fit 
of  laziness.  Now,  Norman  needed  Richard's  assurance  that  the  bay 
was  steady,  so  far  was  he  from  being  troubled  with  his  ancient  desire, 
that  the  steed  would  rear  right  up  on  his  hind  legs. 

He  could  neither  talk  nor  listen  till  he  was  clear  out  of  the  town, 
ar  J  found  himself  master  of  the  animal,  and  even  then  the  words 
were  few,  and  chiefly  spoken  by  Dr.  May,  until  after  going  along  about 
three  miles  of  the  turnpike  road,  he  desired  Norman  to  turn  down 
3,  cross-country  lane. 

'  "Where  does  this  lead  ?  ' 

'  It  comes  out  at  Abbotstoke,  but  I  have  to  go  to  an  outlying 
farm.' 

'  Papa,'  said  Norman,  after  a  few  minutes,  '  I  wish  you  would  let 
me  do  my  Greek.' 

'  Is  that  what  you  have  been  pondering  all  this  time  ?  What, 
may  not  the  bonus  Homerus  slumber  sometimes  ?  ' 

'  It  is  not  Homer,  it  is  Euripides.  I  do  assure  you,  papa,  it  is 
no  trouble,  and  I  get  much  worse  without  it.' 

.'  Well,  stop  here,  the  road  grows  so  bad  that  we  will  walk,  and 
let  the  boy  lead  the  horse  to  meet  us  at  Woodcote.' 

Norman  followed  his  father  down  a  steep  narrow  lane,  little  better 
than  a  stony  water-course,  and  began  to  repeat,  '  If  you  would  but 
let  me  do  my  work !  I've  got  nothing  else  to  do,  and  now  they  have 
put  me  up,  I  should  not  like  not  to  keep  my  place.' 

'  Very  likely,  but — hollo — how  swelled  this  is  ! '  said  Dr.  May, 
as  they  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  where  a  stream  rushed 
along,  coloured  with  a  turbid  creamy  yellow,  making  little  whirlpools 
where  it  crossed  the  road,  and  brawling  loudly  just  above  where  it 
roared  and  foamed  between  two  steep  banks  of  rock,  crossed  by  a 
foot-bridge  of  planks,  guarded  by  a  handrail  of  rough  poles.     The 


il2  rai:  daisy  cuain. 

Doctor  had  traversed  it,  and  gone  a  few  paces  beyond,  when,  looking 
back,  he  saw  Norman  very  pale,  with  one  foot  on  the  plank,  and  one 
hand  grasping  the  rail,  lie  came  back,  and  held  out  his  hand,  which 
Norman  gladly  caught  at,  but  no  sooner  was  the  other  side  attained, 
than  the  boy,  "though  he  gasped  with  relief  exclaimed,  '  This  is  too 
bad  ! '     Wait  one  moment,  please,  and  let  me  go  back.' 

lie  tried,  but  the  first  touch  of  the  shaking  rail,  and  glance  at  the 
chasm,  disconcerted  him,  and  his  father,  seeing  his  white  checks  and 
rigid  lips,  said,  '  Stop,  Norman,  don't  try  it.  You  arc  not  fit,'  he 
y.ddcd,  as  tlie  boy  came  to  him  reluctantly. 

I  can't  bear  to  be  such  a  wretch  !  '  said  he.  '  I  never  used  to  be. 
I  will  not — let  me  conquer  it ; '  and  he  was  turning  back,  but  the 
Doctor  took  his  arm,  saying  decidedly,  '  No,  I  won't  have  it  done. 
You  are  only  making  it  worse,  by  putting  a  force  on  yourself.' 

But  the  further  Norman  was  from  the  bridge,  the  more  displeased 
he  was  with  himself,  and  more  anxious  to  dare  it  again.  '  There's 
no  bearing  it,'  he  muttered  ;  '  let  me  only  run  back.  I'll  overtake 
you.     I  must  do  it  if  no  one  looks  on.' 

'  No  such  thing,'  said  the  Doctor,  holding  him  fast.  '  If  you  do, 
you'll  have  it  all  over  again  at  night.' 

*  That's  better  than  to  know  I  am  worse  than  Tom.' 

'  I  tell  you,  Norman,  it  is  no  such  thing.  You  will  recover  your 
tone  if  you  will  only  do  as  you  are  told,  but  your  nerves  have  had  a 
severe  shock,  and  when  you  force  yourself  in  this  way,  you  only  in- 
crease the  mischief.' 

'  Nerves,'  muttered  Norman,  disdainfully,  '  I  thought  they  were 
only  fit  for  fine  ladies.' 

Dr.  May  smiled.  '  Well,  will  it  content  you  if  I  promise  that 
as  soon  as  I  sec  fit,  I'll  bring  you  here,  and  let  you  march  over  that 
bridge  as  often  as  you  like  ?  ' 

'  I  suppose  I  must  be  contented,  but  I  don't  like  to  feel  like  a  fool.' 

'  You  need  not  while  the  moral  determination  is  sound.' 

'  But  my  Greek,  papa.' 

*  At  it  ao^ain — I  declare,  Norman,  you  are  the  worst  patient  I  ever 
had ! ' 

Norman  made  no  answer,  and  Dr.  May  presently  said  '  Well,  let 
me  hoar  wliat  you  have  to  say  about  it.  I  assure  you  it  is  not 
that  I  don't  want  you  to  get  on,  but  that  I  see  you  are  in  great  need 
of  rest.' 

'  Thank  you,  papa.  I  know  you  mean  it  for  my  good,  but  I  don't 
think  you  do  know  how  horrid  it  is.  I  have  got  nothing  on  earth  to 
do  or  care  for — the  school  work  comes  quite  easy  to  me,  and  I'm 
Bure  thinking  is  worse  ;  and  then,'  Norman  spoke  vehemently,  '  now 
they  have  put  me  up,  it  will  never  do  to  be  beaten,  and  all  the  four 
others  ought  to  be  able  to  do  it.  I  did  not  want  or  expect  to  be  Dux, 
but  now  I  am,  you  could  not  bear  me  not  to  keep  my  place,  and  to 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  113 

miss  the  Randall  scholarship,  as  I  certainly  shall,  if  I  do  not  work 
these  whole  holidays.' 

*  Norman,  I  know  it,'  said  his  father,  kindly.  '  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you,  and  I  know  I  am  asking  of  you  what  I  could  not  have  done 
at  your  age — indeed,  I  don't  believe  I  could  have  done  it  for  you  a 
few  months  ago.  It  is  my  fault  that  you  have  been  let  alone,  to 
have  an  overstrain  and  pressure  on  your  mind,  when  you  were  not 
fit  for  it,  and  I  cannot  see  any  remedy  but  complete  freedom  from 
work.  At  the  same  time,  if  you  fret  and  harass  yourself  about  being 
surpassed,  that  is,  as  you  say,  much  worse  for  you  than  Latin  and 
Greek.  Perhaps  I  may  be  wrong,  and  study  might  not  do  you  the 
harm  I  think  it  would ;  at  any  rate,  it  is  better  than  tormenting  your- 
self about  next  half  year,  so  I  will  not  positively  forbid  it,  but  I 
think  you  had  much  better  let  it  alone.  I  don't  want  to  make  it  a 
matter  of  duty.  I  only  tell  you  this,  that  you  may  set  your  mind  at 
rest  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  If  you  do  lose  your  place,  I  will 
consider  it  as  my  own  doing,  and  not  be  disappointed.  I  had  rather 
see  you  a  healthy,  vigorous,  useful  man,  than  a  poor  puling  nervous 
wretch  of  a  scholar,  if  you  were  to  get  all  the  prizes  in  the  Univer- 
sity.' 

Norman  made  a  little  murmuring  sound  of  assent,  and  both  were 
silent  for  some  moments,  then  he  said ;  '  Then  you  will  not  be  dis- 
pleased, papa,  if  I  do  read,  as  long  as  I  feel  it  does  me  no  harm.' 

'  I  told  you  I  don't  mean  to  make  it  a  matter  of  obedience.  Do 
as  you  please — I  had  rather  you  read  than  vexed  yourself.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  it.  Thank  you,  papa,'  said  Norman,  in  a  much 
cheered  voice. 

They  had,  in  the  meantime,  been  mounting  a  rising  ground, 
clothed  with  stunted  wood,  and  came  out  on  a  wide  heath,  brown 
with  dead  bracken ;  a  hollow,  traced  by  the  tops  of  leafless  trees, 
marked  the  course  of  the  stream  that  traversed  it,  and  the  inequali- 
ties of  ground  becoming  more  rugged  in  outlines  and  greyer  in  col- 
ouring as  they  receded,  till  they  were  closed  by  a  dark  fir  wood,  be- 
yond which  rose  in  extreme  distance,  the  grand  mass  of  Welsh 
mountain  heads,  purpled  against  the  evening  sky,  except  where  the 
crowning  peaks  bore  a  veil  of  snow.  Behind,  the  sky  was  pure  gold, 
gradually  shading  into  pale  green,  and  then  into  clear  light  wintry 
blue,  while  the  sun  setting  behind  two  of  the  loftiest,  seemed  to 
confound  their  outlines,  and  blend  them  in  one  flood  of  soft  hazy 
brightness.  Dr.  May  looked  at  his  son,  and  saw  his  face  clear  up, 
his  brow  expand,  and  his  lips  unclose  with  admiration. 

'  Yes,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  it  is  very  fine,  is  it  not  ?  I  used  to  bring 
mamma  here  now  and  then  for  a  treat,  because  it  put  her  in  mind  of 
her  Scottish  hills.  Well,  yours  are  the  golden  hills  of  heaven,  now, 
my  Maggie  ! '  he  added,  hardly  knowing  that  he  spoke  aloud.  Nor- 
man's throat  swelled,  as  he  looked  up  in  his  face,  then  cast  down  his 
oyes  hastily  to  hide  the  tears  that  had  gathered  on  his  eyelashes. 


11-i  'niK    DAISY   Oil  AIM. 

'  I'll  leave  3-ou  here,'  said  Dr.  May,  '  I  have  to  go  to  a  farm- 
house  close  by,  iu  the  hollow  behind  us,  there's  a  girl  rcco veering  from 
a  fever.     I'll  not  be  ten  minutes,  so  wait  here.' 

When  he  came  back,  Norman  was  still  where  he  had  left  him 
gazing  earnestly,  and  the  tears  standing  on  his  cheeks.  He  did  noi 
move  till  his  father  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder — they  walked 
away  together  without  a  word,  and  scarcely  spoke  all  the  way  home 
Dr.  May  went  to  Margaret,  and  talked  to  her  of  Norman's  fine 
character,  and  intense  afiection  for  his  mother,  the  determined  tem- 
per, and  quietly  borne  grief,  for  which  the  Doctor  seemed  to  havo 
worked  himself  into  a  perfect  enthusiasm  of  admiration ;  but  lament- 
ing that  he  could  not  tell  what  to  do  with  him — study  or  no  study 
hurt  him  alike — and  he  dreaded  to  see  health  and  spirits  shattered 
for  ever.  They  tried  to  devise  change  of  scene,  but  it  did  not  seem 
possible  just  at  present;  and  Margaret,  beside  her  fears  for  Norman, 
was  much  grieved  to  see  this  added  to  her  father's  troubles. 

At  night  Dr.  May  again  went  up  to  see  whether  Norman,  whom 
he  had  moved  into  Margaret's  former  room,  were  again  suflfering  from 
fever.  He  found  him  asleep  in  a  restless  attitude,  as  if  he  had 
just  dropped  off,  and  waking  almost  at  the  instant  of  his  entrance, 
he  exclaimed,  '  Is  it  you  ?  I  thought  it  was  mamma.  She  said  it 
was  all  ambition.' 

Then  starting,  and  looking  round  the  room,  and  at  his  father, 
he  collected  himself,  and  said,  with  a  slight  smile,  '  I  didn't  know  I 
had  been  asleep.  I  was  awake  just  now,  thinking  about  it.  Papa, 
I'll  give  it  up.  I'll  try  to  put  next  half  out  of  my  head,  and  not 
mind  if  they  do  pass  me.' 

'  That's  right,  my  boy,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  At  least  if  Cheviot  and  Forder  do,  for  they  ought.  I  only 
hope  Anderson  won't.  I  can  stand  any  thing  but  that.  But  that 
is  nonsense  too.' 

'  You  are  quite  right,  Norman,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  and  it  is  a 
great  relief  to  me  that  you  see  the  thing  so  sensibly.' 

'  No,  I  don't  see  it  sensibly  at  all,  papa.  I  hate  it  all  the  time, 
and  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  keep  from  thinking  of  it,  when  I 
have  nothing  to  do ;  but  I  see  it  is  wrong ;  I  thought  all  ambi- 
tion and  nonsense  was  gone  out  of  me,  when  I  cared  so  little  for 
the  examination;  but  now  I  sec,  though  I  did  not  want  to  be  made 
first,  I  can't  bear  not  to  be  first;  and  that's  the  old  story,  just  as 
she  used  to  tell  me  to  guard  against  ambition.  So  I'll  take  my 
clianoe,  and  if  I  should  get  put  down,  why  'twas  not  fair  that  I 
should  be  put  up,  and  it  is  what  I  ought  to  be,  and  serves  me  right 
into  the  bargain — ' 

'  Well,  that's  the  best  sort  of  sense,  your  mother's  sense,'  said 
the  Doctor,  more  affected  than  he  liked  to  show.  *  No  wonder  she 
tame  to  you  in  your  dream,  Norman,  my  boy,  if  you  had  come  to 


THE   DAISY   CKAEST.  715 

Buch  a  resolution.  I  ^vas  half  in  hopes  you  had  some  such  notion 
n-hen  I  came  upon  jou,  on  Far-view  down.' 

'  I  think  that  sky  did  it,'  said  Norman,  in  a  low  voice ;  '  it  made 
me  think  of  her  in  a  different  way — and  what  you  said  too.' 

'  "What  did  I  say  ?     I  dont  remember.' 

But  Norman  could  not  repeat  the  words,  and  only  murmured 
'golden  hills' — It  was  enough. 

'  I  see,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  you  had  dwelt  on  the  blank  here,  not 
taken  home  what  it  is  to  her.' 

'  Aye' — almost  sobbed  Norman, '  I  never  could  before — that  made 
me,'  after  a  long  silence,  '  and  then  I  know  how  foolish  I  was,  and  how 
she  would  say  it  was  wrong  to  make  this  fuss,  when  you  did  not  like 
it,  about  my  place,  and  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  my  duty,  but  of 
ambition ;  I  knew  that,  but  till  I  went  to  bed  to-night,  I  could  not 
tell  whether  I  could  make  up  my  mind,  so  I  would  say  nothing.' 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

'  The  days  are  sad,  it  is  the  Holy  tide, 
When  flowers  have  ceased  to  blow  and  birds  to  pir.c' 

F.  Tessybox. 

It  had  been  a  hard  struggle  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of  study,  and 
Norman  was  not  at  first  rewarded  for  it,  but  rather  exemplified  the 
truth  of  his  own  assertion  that  he  was  worse  without  it ;  for  when 
this  sole  occupation  of  his  mind  was  taken  away,  he  drooped  still 
more.  He  would  willingly  have  shown  his  father  that  he  was  not 
discontented,  but  he  was  too  entirely  unnerved  to  be  either  cheer- 
ful or  capable  of  entering  with  interest  into  any  occupation.  If  he 
had  been  positively  ill,  the  task  would  have  been  easier,  but  the 
low  intermittent  fever  that  hung  about  him,  did  not  confine  him  to 
bed,  only  kept  him  lounging,  listless  and  forlorn,  through  the  weary 
day,  not  always  able  to  go  out  with  his  father,  and  on  Christmas- 
Day  unfit  even  for  Church. 

All  this  made  the  want  of  his  mother,  and  the  vacancy  in  his 
home,  still  more  evident,  and  nothing  was  capable  of  relieving  his 
sadness  but  his  father's  kindness,  which  was  a  continual  surprise  to 
him.  Dr.  May  was  a  parent  who  could  not  fail  to  be  loved  and 
honoured;  but,  as  a  busy  man,  trusting  all  at  home  to  his  wife,  he 
kad  only  appeared  to  his  children  either  as  a  merry  playfellow,  or 
as  a  stern  paternal  authority,  not  often  in  the  intermediate  light  of 
guiding  friend,  or  gentle  guardian;  and  it  affected  Norman  exceed- 
ingly to  find  himself,  a  tall  school-boy,  watched  and  soothed  with 
motherly  tenderness  and  affection ;  with  complete  comprehension 
of  his  feelings,  and  delicate  care  of  them.  His  father's  solicitude 
and  sympathy  were  round  him  day  and  nis'ht  and  this  in  the  midst 


no  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

of  SO  much  toil,  paiu,  grief,  and  anxiety  of  his  own,  that  Normar 
might  well  feel  ovcrwlielmod  with  the  swelling,  inexpressible  feel- 
ings of  grateful  afl'cction. 

How  could  his  iather  know  exactly  what  he  would  like — say  the 
very  things  he  was  thinking — see  that  his  depression  was  not  wil- 
ful repining — tind  exactly  what  best  soothed  him  !  lie  wondered, 
but  he  could  not  have  said  so  to  any  one,  only  his  eye  brightened, 
and,  as  his  sisters  remarked,  he  never  seemed  half  so  uncomfortable 
when  papa  was  in  the  room.  Indeed,  the  certainty  that  his  father 
felt  the  sorrow  as  acutely  as  himself,  was  one  reason  of  his  open- 
ing to  him.  He  could  not  feel  that  his  brothers  and  sisters  did  so, 
for,  outwardly,  their  habits  were  unaltered,  their  spirits  not  lowered, 
their  relish  for  things  around  much  the  same  as  before,  and  this 
had  given  Norman  a  sense  of  isolation.  With  his  father  it  was 
diflferent.  Norman  knew  he  could  never  appreciate  what  the  be 
reavement  was  to  him — he  saw  its  traces  in  almost  every  word  and 
look,  and  yet  perceived  that  something  sustained  and  consoled  him, 
though  not  in  the  way  of  forc^et fulness.  Now  and  then  Norman 
caught  at  what  gave  this  comfort,  and  it  might  be  hoped  he  would 
do  so  increasingly;  though,  on  this  Christmas-Day,  Margaret  felt 
very  sad  about  him,  as  she  watched  him  sitting  over  the  tire,  cow- 
ering with  chilliness  and  headache,  while  every  one  was  gone  to 
Church,  and  saw  that  the  reading  of  the  service  with  her  had  been 
more  of  a  trouble  than  a  solace. 

She  tried  to  think  it  bodily  ailment,  and  strove  hard  not  to  pine 
for  her  mother,  to  comfort  them  both,  and  say  the  fond  words  of 
refreshing  cheering  pity  that  Avould  have  made  all  light  to  bear. 
Margaret's  home  Christmas  was  so  spent  in  caring  for  brother, 
father,  and  children,  that  she  had  hardly  time  to  dwell  on  the  sad 
change  that  had  befallen  herself 

Christmas  was  a  season  that  none  of  them  knew  well  how  to 
meet :  Blanche  was  overheard  saying  to  Mary,  that  she  wished  it 
would  not  come,  and  Mary,  shaking  her  head,  and  answering  that 
she  w^as  afraid  that  was  naughty,  but  it  was  very  tiresome  to  have 
no  fun.  Margaret  did  her  best  up-stairs,  and  llichard  down- 
stairs, by  the  help  of  prints  and  hymns,  to  make  the  children  think 
of  the  true  joy  of  Christmas,  and  in  the  evening  their  father  gath 
ered  them  round,  and  told  them  the  stories  of  the  Shepherds  an 
of  the  Wise  Men,  till  Mary  and  Blanche  agreed,  as  they  went  up 
to  bod,  that  it  had  been  a  very  happy  evening. 

The  next  day  Harry  discomfited  the  school-room  by  bursting 
in  with  the  news,  that  '  Louisa  and  Fanny  Anderson  were  bearing 
down  on  the  front  door.'  Ethel  and  Flora  were  obliged  to  appear 
in  the  drawing-room,  where  they  were  greeted  by  two  girls,  rather 
older  than  themselves.  A  whole  shower  of  inquiries  for  Dr.  May 
for  Margaret,  and  for  the  dear  little  baby,  were  first  i^ourcd  cut 


THE   TAISY    CHAIN.  117 

then  came  hopes  that  Norman  was  well,  as  they  had  not  seen  hira 
at  Church  yesterday. 

'  Thank  you,  he  was  kept  at  home  by  a  bad  headache,  but  it  ia 
better  to-day.' 

'  We  came  to  congratulate  you  on  his  success — we  could  not 
help  it — it  must  have  been  such  a  pleasure  to  you.' 

'  That  it  wa-s  !  '  exclaimed  Ethel,  pleased  at  participation  in 
her  rejoicing.     '  We  were  so  surprised.' 

Flora  gave  a  glance  of  warning,  but  Ethel's  short-sighted  eyes 
were  beyond  the  range  of  correspondence,  and  Miss  Anderson  con- 
tinued. '  It  must  have  been  a  delightful  surprise.  We  could  hard- 
ly believe  it  when  Harvey  came  in  and  told  us.  Everyone  thought 
Forder  was  sure,  but  they  were  all  put  out  by  the  questions  of  gen- 
eral information — those  were  all  Mr.  Everard's  doing.' 

'  Mr.  Everard  wag  very  much  struck  with  Norman's  knowledge 
and  scholarship  too,'  said  Flora. 

'  So  everyone  says.  It  was  all  Mr.  Everard's  doing.  Miss  Harri- 
son told  mamma,  but,  for  my  part,  I  am  very  glad  for  the  sake  of 
Stoneborough;  I  like  a  town  boy  to  be  at  the  head.' 

'  Norman  was  sorry  for  Forder  and  Cheviot — '  began  EtheL 
Flora  tried  to  stop  her,  but  Louisa  Anderson  caught  at  what  she 
said,  and  looked  eagerly  for  more.  '  He  felt,'  said  she,  only  think- 
ing of  exalting  her  generous  brother,  '  as  if  it  was  hardly  right, 
when  they  are  so  much  his  seniors,  and  he  could  scarcely  enjoy  it.' 

'  Ah !  that  is  just  what  people  say,'  replied  Lousia.  '  But  it 
must  be  very  gratifying  to  you,  and  it  makes  him  certain  of  the 
Randall  scholarship  too,  I  suppose.  It  is  a  great  thing  for  him ! 
He  must  have  worked  very  hard.' 

'  Yes,  that  he  has,'  said  Flora ;  'he  is  so  fond  of  study,  and 
that  goes  half  way.' 

'  So  is  dear  Harvey.  How  earnest  he  is  over  his  books  ! 
Mamma  sometimes  says,  "  Now  Harvey,  dear,  you'll  be  quite  stupi- 
fied,  you'll  be  ill ;  I  really  shall  get  Dr.  May  to  forbid  you."  I 
suppose  Norman  is  vsry  busy  too;  it  is  quite  the  fashion  for  boya 
not  to  be  idle  now.' 

'  Poor  Norman  can't  help  it,'  said  Ethel,  piteously.     '  Papa  will 
not  hear  of  his  doing  any  Latin  or  Greek  these  whole  holidays.' 

'  He  thinks  he  will  come  to  it  better  again  for  entire  rest,'  said 
Flora,  launching  another  look  at  her  sister,  which  again  fell  short. 

A  great  deal  of  polite  inquiry  whether  they  were  uneasy  about  him, 
followed,  mixed  with  a  little  boasting  of  dear  Harvey's  diligence. 

'  By-the-bye,  Ethel,  it  is  you  that  are  the  great  patroness  of  the 
wild  Cocksmoor  children — are  not  you  ?  ' 

Ethel  coloured,  and  mumbled,  and  Flora  answered  for  her, 
'  Richard  and  Ethel  have  been  there  once  or  twice.  You  know  our 
tinder  nursery-maid  is  a  Cocksmoor  girl.' 

'  Well,  mamma  said  she  could  not  think  how  Miss  May  could 


118  *  TIIK   DAISY    CHAIN. 

tako  one  from  thence.     The  whole  place  is  full  of  thieves,  and  dc 
you  know,  Bes.sie  IJoulder  has  lost  her  gold  pencil-case.' 
'  Has  she  ?  '  said  Flora. 

*  And  she  had  it  on  Sunday  when  she  was  teaching  her  class.' 
'Oh!'  cried  Ethel,  vehemently;   '  surely  she  does  not  suspect 

any  of  those  poor  children  ! ' 

'  I  only  know  such  a  thing  never  happened  at  school  before,' 
said  Fanny,  *  and  I  shall  never  take  anything  valuable  there  again.' 

'  But  is  she  sure  she  lost  it  at  school  ?' 

*  0  yes,  quite  certain.  She  will  not  accuse  anyone,  but  it  is  nol 
'^mfortable.     And  how  those  children  do  behave  at  Church  ! ' 

'  Poor  things !  they  have  been  sadly  neglected,'  said  Flora. 

'  They  are  quite  spoiling  the  rest,  and  they  are  such  figures ! 
Why  don't  you,  at  least,  make  them  cut  their  hair  ?  You  know  it 
is  the  ru.e  of  the  school.' 

'  I  know,  but  half  the  girls  in  the  first  class  wear  it  long.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  but  those  are  the  superior  people,  that  one  would  not 
be  strict  with,  and  they  dress  it  so  nicely  too.  Now  these  are  like 
little  savages.' 

'  Richard  thinks  it  might  drive  them  away  to  insist  at  first,' 
said  Fithel;  '  we  will  try  to  bring  it  about  in  time.' 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Ledwich  is  nearly  resolved  to  insist,  so  j'ou  had 
better  be  warned,  Ethel.  She  cannot  suifer  such  untidiness  and 
rags  to  spoil  the  appearance  of  the  school,  and,  I  assure  you,  it  is 
quite  unpleasant  to  the  teachers.' 

'  I  wish  they  would  give  them  all  to  me  ! '  said  Ethel.  '  But  I 
do  hope  Mrs.  Ledwich  will  have  patience  with  them,  for  they  are 
only  to  be  gained  gently.' 

The  visitors  took  their  leave,  and  the  two  sisters  began  exclaim- 
ing— Ethel  at  their  dislike  of  her  proUgis^  and  Flora  at  what  they 
had  said  of  Norman.  '  And  you,  Ethel,  how  could  you  go  and  tell 
them  we  were  surprised,  and  Norman  thought  it  was  hard  on  the 
other  boys?  They'll  have  it  all  over  the  town  that  he  got  it 
unjustly,  and  knows  it,  as  they  say  already  it  was  partiality  of 
Mr.  Everard's.' 

'  O  no,  no,  they  never  can  be  so  bad  ! '  cried  Ethel;  '  they  must 
have  understod  better  that  it  was  his  noble  humility  and  generosity.' 

'  They  understand  anything  noble  !  No  indeed  !  They  think 
everyone  like  their  own  beautiful  brother  !  I  knew  what  they  came 
for  all  the  time ;  they  wanted  to  know  whether  Norman  was  able  to 
work  these  holidays,  and  you  told  them  the  very  thing  they  wanted 
to  hear.  How  thev  will  rejoice  with  th.at  Harvey,  and  make  sure 
of  the  Randall ! ' 

'  O  no,  no  ! '  cried  Ethel ;  '  Norman  must  get  that ! ' 

'  I  don't  think  he  will,'  said  Flora,  '  losing  all  this  time,  while  they 
are  working.    It  cannot  bo  helped,  of  course,  but  it  is  a  great  pity. 

'  T  almost  wish  he  had  not  been  put  up  at  all,  if  it  is  to  end  ir, 


THE    DAIin:    CIIAIJT.  119 

this  way,'  said  Ethei.     '  It  is  very  provokiag,  and  to  have  them 
triumphing  as  they  -will  !     There's  ao  bearing  it !  ' 

'  Norman,  certainly,  is  not  at  all  well,  poor  fellow,'  said  Flora, 
'  and  I  suppose  he  wants  rest,  but  I  wish  papa  would  let  him  do  what 
he  can.  It  would  be  much  better  for  him  than  moping  about  as  he 
is  always  doing  now ;  and  the  disappointment  of  losing  his  place 
will  be  grievous,  though  now  he  fancies  he  does  not  care  for  it.' 

*  I  wonder  when  he  will  ever  care  for  anything  again.  All  I  read 
and  tell  him  only  seems  to  teaze  him,  though  he  tries  to  thank  me.' 

'  There  is  a  strange  apathy  about  him,'  said  Flora,  '  but  I  believe 
it  is  chiefly  for  want  of  exertion.  I  should  like  to  rouse  him  if 
papa  would  let  me ;  I  know  I  could,  by  telling  him  how  these  An- 
dersons are  reckoning  on  his  getting  down.  If  he  does,  I  shall  be 
ready  to  run  away,  that  I  may  never  meet  anyone  here  again.' 

Ethel  was  very  unhappy  till  she  was  able  to  pour  all  this  trouble 
out  to  Margaret,  and  worked  herself  almost  into  crying  about  Nor- 
man's being  passed  by  that  '  Harvey,'  and  his  sistera  exulting,  and 
papa  being  vexed,  and  Norman  losing  time  and  not  caring. 

'  There  you  are  wrong,'  said  Margaret ;  '  Norman  did  care  very 
much,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  seen  clearly  that  it  was  a  matter 
of  duty  to  do  as  papa  thought  right,  and  not  agnate  his  mind  about 
his  chances  of  keeping  up,  that  he  could  bear  to  give  up  his  work ,  ' 
and  she  told*Ethel  a  little  of  what  had  passed. 

Ethel  was  much  struck.  '  But  oh  !  Margaret,  it  is  very  hard, 
just  to  have  him  put  up  for  the  sake  of  being  put  down,  and  pleas- 
ing the  Andersons !  ' 

'  Dear  Ethel,  why  should  you  mind  so  much  about  the  Ander- 
sons ?     May  they  not  care  about  their  brother  as  we  do  for  ours  ? ' 

•  Such  a  brother  to  care  about !  '  said  Ethel. 

'  But  I  suppose  they  may  like  him  the  best,'  said  Margaret,  smiling. 

'  I  suppose  they  do,'  said  Ethel,  grudgingly  ;  '  but  still  I  cannot 
bear  to  see  Norman  doing  nothing,  and  know  Harvey  Anderson 
will  beat  him.' 

'  Surely  you  had  rather  he  did  nothing  than  made  himself  ill.' 

'  To  be  sure,  but  I  wish  it  wasn't  so.' 

'  Yes ;  but,  Ethel,  whose  doing  is  his  getting  into  this  state  ?  ' 

Ethel  looked  grave.  '  It  was  wrong  of  me,'  said  she,  '  but  then 
papa  is  not  sure  that  Greek  would  hurt  him.' 

'  Not  sure,  but  he  thinks  it  not  wise  to  run  the  risk.  But,  Ethel, 
dear,  why  are  you  so  bent  on  his  being  Dux  at  all  costs  ? ' 

'It  would  be  horrid  if  he  was  not.' 

'  Don't  you  remember  you  used  to  say  that  outward  praise  or 
honour  was  not  to  be  cared  for  as  long  as  one  did  one's  duty,  and 
that  it  might  be  a  temptation?  ' 

'Yes,  I  know  I  did,'  said  Ethel,  faltering, '  but  that  was  for  one's  self.' 

'  It  is  harder,  I  think,  to  feel  so  about  those  we  care  for,'  said  Mar- 
garet ;  '  but  after  all,  this  is  just  what  will  show  whether  our  pride 


120  'llli';    DAISY    tilAIX. 

in  Norman  is  the  right  true  loving  pride,  or  whether  it  is  only  the 
family  vanity  of  triumphing  over  the  Andersons.' 

Ethel  hung  her  head.  '  There's  some  of  that,' she  said,  'but  it  is  not 
all.    No — I  don't  want  to  triumph  over  them,  nobody  would  do  that.' 

'  Not  outwardly,  perhaps,  but  in  their  hearts.' 

*  I  can't  tell,'  Kiid  Ethel, '  but  it  is  the  being  triumphed  over 
that  I  cannot  bear.' 

*  Perhaps  this  is  all  a  lesson  in  humility  for  us,'  said  IMargaret. 
It  is  teaching  us,  "  Whosoever  exalteth  himself,  shall  be  abased, 

and  he  that  humbleth  himself  shall  be  exalted."  ' 

Ethel  was  silent  for  some  little  space,  then  suddenly  exclaimed, 
And  you  think  he  will  really  be  put  down  ?  ' 

Margaret  seemed  to  have  been  talking  with  little  effect,  but  she 
kept  her  patience,  and  answered,  '  I  cannot  guess,  Ethel,  but  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing — I  think  there's  much  more  chance  if  ho  comes 
to  his  work  fresh  and  vigorous  after  a  rest,  than  if  he  went  on  dull- 
ing himself  with  it  all  this  time.' 

Witli  which  Ethel  was  so  far  appeased  that  she  promised  to 
think  as  little  as  she  could  of  the  Andei'sons,  and  a  walk  with  Richard 
to  Cocksmoor  turned  the  current  of  her  thoughts.  They  had  caught 
some  more  Sunday-school  children  by  the  help  of  Margaret's  broth, 
but  it  was  up-hill  work;  the  servants  did  not  like  such  guests  in  the 
kitchen,  and  they  were  still  less  welcome  at  school. 

'  What  do  you  think  I  heard,  Ethel "? '  said  Flora  the  next  Sunday 
as  they  joined  each  other  in  the  walk  from  School  to  Church  ;  '  1 
heard  Miss  Graves  say  to  Miss  Boulder,  "I  declare  I  must  remon- 
strate. I  undertook  to  instruct  a  national,  not  a  ragged  school ;"  and 
then  Miss  Boulder  shook  out  her  fine  watered  silk,  and  said,  "  It  posi- 
tively is  improper  to  place  ladies  in  contact  with  such  squalid  objects." ' 

'  Ladies! '  cried  Ethel.  '  A  stationer's  daughter  and  a  banker's 
clerk's.     Why  do  they  come  to  teach  at  schoolat  all  '^  ' 

'  Because  our  exam2)le  makes  it  genteel,'  said  Flora. 

'  I  hope  you  did  something  more  in  hopes  of  making  it  genteel.' 

'  I  caught  one  of  your  ragged  regiment  with  her  frock  gaping  be- 
hind, and  pinned  it  up.   Such  rags  as  there  were  under  it !    0  Ethel!' 

'  Which  was  it  I ' 

'  That  merry  Irish-looking  child.     I  don't  know  her  name.' 

'  Oh  !  it  is  a  real  charming  Irish  name,  Una  M'Carthy.  I  am 
BO  glad  you  did  it,  Flora.     I  hope  they  were  ashamed.' 

'  I  doubt  whether  it  will  do  good.  We  are  sure  of  our  station 
and  can  do  anything — they  are  struggling  to  be  ladies.' 

*  But  we  ought  not  to  talk  of  them  any  more,  Flora ;  here  we 
are  almost  at  the  Church3ard.' 

The  Tuesday  of  this  week  was  appointed  for  the  visit  of  the  London 
surgeon,  Sir  Matthew  Fleet,  and  the  expectation  caused  Dr.  May  to  talk 
much  to  Margaret  of  old  times,  and  the  days  of  his  courtship,  when  it 
had  been  his  favourite  project  that  his  friend  and  fellow-student  should 


THE   DAISY   CHATX.  l2l 

marry  Flora  Mackenzie,  and  there  bad  been  a  promising  degree  of 
liking,  but  '  Mat '  bad  been  obliged  to  be  prudent,  and  bad  ended 
by  never  marrying  at  all.  This  the  Doctor,  as  well  as  his  daughters, 
believed  was  for  the  sake  of  Aunt  Flora,  and  thus  the  girls  were 
a  good  deal  excited  about  his  coming,  almost  as  much  on  his  own 
account,  as  because  they  considered  him  as  the  abiter  of  Margaret's 
fate.  He  only  came  in  time  for  a  seven  o'clock  dinner,  and  Margaret 
did  not  see  him  that  night,  but  heard  enough  from  her  sisters,  when 
they  came  up  to  tell  the  history  of  their  guest,  and  of  the  first  set 
dinner  when  Flora  had  acted  as  lady  of  the  house.  The  dinner  it  ap- 
peared had  gone  off  very  well.  Flora  had  managed  admirably,  and  the 
only  mishap  was  some  awkward  carving  of  Ethel's  which  had  caused 
the  dish  to  be  changed  with  Norman.  As  to  the  guest,  Flora  said 
he  was  very  good-looking  and  agreeable.  Ethel  abruptly  pronounced, 
'  I  am  very  glad  Aunt  Flora  married  Uncle  Arnott  instead.' 

'  I  can't  think  why,'  said  Flora.  '  I  never  saw  a  person  of 
pleasanter  manners.' 

'  Did  they  talk  of  old  times  ?  '  said  Margaret. 

'  No,'  said  Ethel;  '  that  was  the  thing.' 

'  You  would  not  have  them  talk  of  those  matters  in  the  middle 
of  dinner,'  said  Flora. 

"  No,'  again  said  Ethel ;  '  but  papa  has  a  way — don't  you  know, 
Margaret,  how  one  can  tell  in  a  moment  if  it  is  company  talk.' 

'  What  was  the  conversation  about  ?  '  said  Margaret. 

'  They  talked  over  some  of  their  old  fellow-students,'  said  Flora. 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel ;  '  and  then  when  papa  told  him  that  beautiful 
history  of  Dr.  Spencer  going  to  take  care  of  those  poor  emigrants  in 
the  fever,  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?  "  Yes,  Spencer  was  always 
doing  extravagant  things."  Fancy  that  to  papa,  who  can  hardly 
speak  of  it  without  having  to  wipe  his  spectacles,  and  who  so  longs 
to  hear  of  Dr.  Spencer.' 

'  And  what  did  he  say  ?  ' 

'  Nothing ;  so  Flora  and  Sir  Matthew  got  to  pictures  and  all  that 
s.?rt  of  thing,  and  it  was  all  company  talk  after  that.' 

'  Most  entertaining  in  its  kind,'  said  Flora :  '  but — oh  Norman  ! ' 
as  he  entered — '  why  they  are  not  out  of  the  dining-room  yet ! ' 

'  No ;  they  are  talking  of  some  new  invention,  and  most  likely 
will  not  come  for  an  hour.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  bed  ?  ' 

'  Papa  followed  me  out  of  the  dining-room  to  tell  me  to  do  so 
after  tea.' 

'  Then  sit  down  there,  and  111  go  and  make  some,  and  let  it  come 
up  with  Margaret's.  Come,  Ethel.  Good  night,  Norman.  Is  your 
head  aching  to-night  ?  ' 

'  Not  much,  now  I  have  got  out  of  the  dining-room.' 

'  It  would  have  been  wiser  not  to  have  gone  in,'  said  Flora,  leav- 
ing the  room. 

Vol.  I.— 6 


122  THE    DAISY   CHAIN. 

'  It  was  not  the  dinner,  but  the  man,'  said  Norman.  '  It  ia  in- 
comprehensible to  me  how  my  father  could  take  to  liiui.  I'd  as 
60on  have  Harvey  Anderson  for  a  friend  I ' 

'  You  are  like  me,'  said  Ethel,  '  in  being  glad  that  he  is  not  our 
uncle.' 

'  He  presume  to  think  of  falling  in  love  with  Aunt  Flora ! '  cried 
Norman,  indignantly. 

'  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  '  asked  Margaret.  '  I  can't 
find  nuicli  ground  for  Ethel's  dislike,  and  Flora  is  pleased.' 

'  She  did  not  hear  the  worst,  nor  you  either,  Ethel,'  said  Nor- 
man. *  I  could  not  stand  the  cold  hard  way  he  spoke  of  hospital 
patients.  I  am  sure  he  thinks  poor  people  nothing  but  a  study,  and 
rich  ones  nothing  but  a  profit.  And  his  half  sneers  !  Eut  what 
I  hated  most  was  his  way  of  avoiding  discussions.  When  he  saw  he 
had  said  what  would  not  go  down  with  papa,  he  did  not  honestly 
stand  up  to  the  point,  and  argue  it  out,  but  selbmed  to  have  no  mini 
of  his  own,  and  to  be  only  talking  to  please  papa — but  not  knowing 
how  to  do  it.     He  understand  my  father  indeed ! ' 

Norman's  indignation  had  quite  revived  him,  and  ^Margaret  was 
much  entertained  with  the  conflicting  opinions.  The  next  was 
Richard's,  when  he  came  in  late  to  wish  her  good  night,  after  he 
had  been  attending  on  Sir  Matthew's  examination  of  his  father's 
arm.  He  did  nothing  but  admire  the  surgeon's  delicacy  of  touch 
and  understanding  of  the  case,  his  view  agreeing  much  better  with 
Dr.  May's  own  than  with  Mr.  Ward's.  Dr.  May  had  never  been 
entirely  satisfied  with  the  present  mode  of  treatment,  and  llichard 
was  much  struck  by  hearing  him  say,  in  answer  to  Sir  Matthew,  that 
he  knew  his  recovery  might  have  been  more  speedy  and  less  painful 
if  he  had  been  able  to  attend  to  it  at  first,  or  to  aflbrd  time  for  be- 
ing longer  laid  up.  A  change  of  treatment  was  now  to  be  made, 
likely  soon  to  relic -3  the  pain,  to  be  less  tedious  and  troublesome, 
and  to  bring  about  a  complete  cure  in  three  or  four  months  at  latest. 
In  hearing  such  tidings,  there  could  be  little  thought  of  the  person 
who  brought  them,  and  Margaret  did  not,  till  the  last  moment,  learn 
that  Kichard  thought  Sir  Matth<.'w  very  clever  and  sensible,  and 
certain  to  understand  her  case.  Her  last  visitor  was  her  father  : 
*  Asleep,  Margaret?  I  thought  I  had  better  go  to  Norman  first  in 
ease  he  should  be  awake.' 

'Was  heV 

'  Yes,  but  his  pulse  is  better  to-night.  He  was  lying  awake  to 
hear  what  Fleet  thought  of  me.     I  suppose  llichard  told  you.' 

'  Yes,  dear  papa,  what  a  comfort  it  is  I  ' 

'  Those  fellows  in  London  do  keep  up  to  the  mark  !  But  I  would 
not  be  there  for  something.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  altered.  How- 
ever, if  he  can  only  do  for  you  as  well — but  it  is  of  no  use  talking 
about  it.     I  may  trust  you  to  keep  yourself  calm,  my  dear  ?  ' 

'  I  am  trying — indeed  I  am,  dear  papa.     If  you  could  help  being 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  123 

auxious  for  me — thougti  I  know  it  is  worse  for  you,  for  I  only  liavo 
to  lie  still,  and  you  have  to  settle  for  me.  But  I  have  been  thinking 
how  well  oflF  I  am,  able  to  enjoy  so  much,  and  be  employed  all  day 
long.  It  is  nothing  to  compare  with  that  poor  girl  you  told  me  of, 
and  you  need  not  be  unhappy  for  me.  I  have  some  verses  to  say 
over  to  myself  to-night : 

"  O  Lord  my  God,  do  Thou  Thy  hWy  will, 

I  will  lie  still, 
I  will  not  stir,  lest  I  forsake  Thine  arm 

And  break  the  charm 
That  lulls  me,  clinging  to  my  Father's  breast 

In  perfect  rest." 

Is  not  that  comfortable  ?  ' 

'  My  child — my  dear  child — I  will  say  no  more,  lest  I  should 
break  your  sweet  peace  with  my  impatience.  I  will  strive  for  the 
same  temper,  my  Margaret.     Bless  you,  dearest,  good-night.' 

After  a  night  spent  in  waking  intervals  of  such  thoughts,  Mar- 
garet found  the  ordinary  morning,  and  the  talk  she  could  not  escape, 
somewhat  oppressive.  Her  brothers  and  sisters  disturbed  her  by 
their  open  expressions  of  hope  and  anxiety ;  she  dreaded  to  have 
the  balance  of  tranquillity  overset ;  and  then  blamed  herself  for  sel- 
fishness in  not  being  as  ready  to  attend  to  them  as  usual.  Ethel 
and  Norman  came  up  after  breakfast,  their  aversion  by  no  means 
decreased  by  further  acquaintance.  Ethel  was  highly  indignant  at 
the  tone  in  which  he  had  exclaimed,  '  What,  May,  have  you  one  as 
young  as  this  ?  '  on  discovering  the  existence  of  the  baby  ;  and  when 
Korman  observed  that  was  not  so  atrocious  either,  she  proceeded, 
'  You  did  not  hear  the  contemptuous  compassionate  tone  when  he 
asked  papa  what  he  meant  to  do  with  all  these  boys.' 

'  I'm  glad  he  has  not  to  settle,'  said  Norman. 

'  Papa  said  Harry  was  to  be  a  sailor,  and  he  said  it  was  a  good 
way  to  save  expenses  of  education — a  good  thing.' 

'  No  doubt,'  said  Norman, '  he  thinks  papa  only  wants  to  get  rid 
of  us,  or  if  not,  that  it  is  an  amiable  weakness.' 

'  But  I  can't  see  anything  so  shocking  in  this,'  said  Margaret. 

'  It  is  not  the  words,'  said  Norman, '  the  look  and  tone  convey  it; 
but  there  are  different  opinions.  Flora  is  quite  smitten  with  him, 
he  talks  so  politely  to  her.' 

'  And  Blanche  ! '  said  Ethel.  *  The  little  affected  pussy-cat  made 
a  set  at  him,  bridled  and  talked  in  her  mincing  voice,  with  all  her 
airs,  and  made  him  take  a  great  deal  of  notice  of  her.' 

Nurse  here  came  to  prepare  for  the  surgeon's  visit. 

It  was  ovei,  and  Margaret  awaited  the  judgment.  Sir  Matthew 
had  spoken  hopefully  to  her,  but  she  feared  to  fasten  hopes  on  what 
might  have  no  meaning,  and  could  rely  on  nothing,  till  she  had  seen 
her  father,  who  never  kept  back  his  geniune  opinion,  and  would 
least  of  all  from  her.     She  found  her  spirits  too  much  agitated  tc 


.124  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

talk  to  her  sisters,  aud  quietly  begged  them  to  let  her  he  quite  alone 
till  the  consul tatioji  Avas  over,  and  she  lay  trying  to  prepare  herself 
to  submit  thankfully,  whether  she  might  be  bidden  to  resign  her- 
self to  helplessness,  or  to  let  her  mind  open  onee  more  to  visions  of 
joyous  usefulness.  Every  step  she  hoped  would  prove  to  be  her 
father's  apjiroach,  and  the  longest  hour  of  her  life  was  that  before 
he  entered  her  room.  His  face  said  that  the  tidings  were  good,  and 
yet  she  could  not  ask. 

'  Well,  Margaret,  I  am  glad  we  had  him  down.  He  thinks  y^u 
may  get  about  again,  though  it  may  be  a  long  time  first.' 

'  Does  he — oh  papa ! '  and  the  colour  spread  over  her  face  -la 
she  squeezed  his  hand  very  fast. 

'  He  has  known  the  use  of  the  limbs  return  almost  suddenly 
after  even  a  year  or  two,'  and  Dr.  May  gave  her  the  grounds  of  the 
opinion,  and  an  account  of  other  like  cases,  which  he  said  had  con- 
vinced him,  '  though,  my  poor  child,'  he  said,  '  I  feared  the  harm  I 
had  done  you  was  irremediable,  but  thanks — .'  He  turned  away  his 
face,  and  the  clasp  of  their  hands  spoke  the  rest. 

Presently  he  told  Margaret  that  she  was  no  longer  to  be  kept 
prostrate,  but  she  was  to  do  exactly  as  was  most  comfortable  to  her, 
avoiding  nothing  but  fatigue.  She  might  be  lifted  to  the  sofa  the  next 
da}',  and  if  that  agreed  with  her,  she  might  be  carried  down  stairs. 

This,  in  itself,  after  she  had  been  confined  to  her  bed  for  three 
months,  was  a  release  from  captivity,  and  all  the  brothers  and  sisters 
rejoiced  as  if  she  was  actually  on  her  feet  again,  llichard  betook 
himself  to  constructing  a  reading-frame  for  the  sofa ;  Harry  tor- 
mented Miss  Winter  by  insisting  on  a  holiday  for  the  others,  and 
gained  the  day  by  an  appeal  to  his  father;  then  declared  he  should 
go  and  tell  Mr.  Wilmot  the  good  news;  aud  Norman,  quite  enli- 
vened, took  up  his  hat,  and  .said  he  would  come  too. 

In  all  his  joy,  however.  Dr.  May  could  not  cease  bewailing  the 
alteration  in  his  old  friend,  and  spent  half  the  evening  in  telling 
Margaret  how  difi"erent  he  had  once  been,  in  terms  little  less  measured 
than  Ethel's  :  '  I  never  saw  such  a  change.  Mat  Fleet  was  one  of 
the  most  warm,  open-hearted  fellows  in  the  world,  up  to  anything. 
I  can  hardly  believe  he  is  the  same — turned  into  a  mere  machine, 
with  a  moving  spring  of  self-interest !  I  don't  believe  he  cares  a 
rush  for  any  living  thing  !  Except  for  your  sake,  Margaret,  I  wish 
I  had  never  seen  him  again,  and  only  remembered  him  as  he  was  at 
Edinburgh,  as  I  remember  dear  old  Spencer.  It  is  a  grievous  thing  ! 
lluined  entirely  !  No  doubt  that  London  life  must  be  trying — the 
constant  change  and  bewilderments  of  patients  preventing  much  in- 
dividual care  and  interest.  It  must  be  very  hardening.  No  family 
ties  either,  nothing  to  look  to  but  pushing  his  way.  Yes !  there'.s 
great  excuse  for  poor  Mat,  I  never  knew  fully  till  now  the  blessing 
it  was  tJKit  your  dear  mother  was  willing  to  take  me  so  early,  ana 


THE   DAISY    CKALN".  125 

that  this  place  was  open  to  me  with  all  its  home  comiexioBs  and  in- 
terests.    I  am  glad  I  never  had  anything  to  do  with  London  ! ' 

And  when  he  was  alone  with  Norman,  he  could  not  help  saying, 
'  Norman,  my  boy,  I'm  more  glad  than  ever  you  yielded  to  me  about 
your  Greek  these  holidays,  and  for  the  reason  you  did.  Take  care 
the  love  of  rising  and  pushing  never  gets  hold  of  you;  there's 
nothing  that  faster  changes  a  man  from  his  better  self.' 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Matthew  Fleet  had  met  another  old  college  friend 
in  London,  and  was  answering  his  inquiries  for  the  Dick  May  of 
ancient  times. 

'  Poor  May  !  I  never  saw  a  man  so  thrown  away.  With  his 
talent  and  acuteness,  he  might  be  the  most  eminent  man  of  his  day, 
if  he  had  only  known  how  to  use  them.  But  he  was  always  the 
same  careless  soft-hearted  fellow,  never  knowing  how  to  do  himself 
any  good,  and  he  is  the  same  still,  not  a  day  older  nor  wiser.  It 
was  a  fatal  thing  for  him  that  there  was  that  country  practice  ready 
for  him  to  step  into,  and  even  of  that  he  does  not  make  as  good  a 
thing  as  he  might.  Of  course  he  married  early,  and  there  he  is, 
left  a  widower  with  a  house  full  of  children — screaming  babies,  and 
great  tall  sons  growing  up,  and  he  without  a  notion  what  he  shall 
do  with  them,  as  heedless  as  ever — saving  nothing  of  course.  I 
always  knew  it  was  what  he  would  come  to,  if  he  would  persist  in 
burying  himself  in  that  wretched  little  country  town,  but  I  hardly 
thought,  after  all  he  has  gone  through,  to  find  him  such  a  mere  boy 
still.  And  yet  he  is  one  of  the  cleverest  men  I  ever  met — with 
such  talent,  and  such  thorough  knowledge  of  his  profession,  that  it 
does  one  good  to  hear  him  talk.  Poor  May  !  I  am  sorry  for  him, 
he  might  have  been  anything,  but  that  early  marriage  and  country 
practic  were  the  ruin  of  him.' 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


'  To  thee,  dear  maid,  each  kindly  wile 

Was  known  that  elder  sisters  know, 
To  check  the  unseasonable  smile 

With  warning  hand  and  serious  brow. 

From  dream  to  dream  with  her  to  rove, 

Like  fairy  nurse  with  hermit  child  ; 
Teach  her  to  think,  to  pray,  to  love. 

Make  giief  less  bitter,  joy  less  wild.'  

LiSES   ON  A  MONUMEST  AT  LlTCHTIElJ). 


Sir  Matthew  Fleet's  visit  seemed  like  a  turning-point  with  the  May 
family-,  rousing  and  giving  them  revived  hopes.  Norman  began  to 
shake  off  his  extreme  languor  and  depression,  the  Doctor  was  relieved 
from  much  of  the  wearing  suffering  from  his  hurt,  and  his  despon- 
dency as  to  Margaret's  ultimate  recovery  had  been  driven  away. 
The  experiment  of  taking  her  uj  succeeded  so  well,  that  on  Sunday 


126  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

she  was  fully  attired,  'fit  to  receive  company.'  As  she  lay  on  the 
sofa  there  seemed  an  advance  toward  recovery.  Much  sweet  co- 
:;[uetry  was  expended  in  trying  to  look  her  best  for  her  father ;  and 
her  best  was  very  well,  for  though  the  brilliant  bloom  of  health  wa.s 
gone,  her  cheeks  had  not  lost  their  pretty  rounded  contour,  and 
still  had  some  rosiness,  while  her  large  bright  blue  eyes  smiled  and 
sparkled.  A  screen  shut  out  the  rest  of  the  room,  making  a  sort 
of  little  parlour  round  the  fire,  where  sundry  of  the  family  were 
visiting  her  after  coming  home  from  Church  in  the  afternoon. 
Ethel  was  in  a  vehement  state  of  indignation  at  what  had  that  day 
happened  at  school.  '  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it !  When 
the  point  was,  to  teach  the  poor  things  to  be  Christians,  to  turn 
theiu  back,  because  their  hair  was  not  regulation  length  1 ' 

'  "What's  that!  "Who  did?  '  said  Dr.  May,  coming  in  from  his 
own  room,  where  he  had  heard  a  few  words. 

'  Mrs.  Ledwich.  She  sent  back  three  of  the  Cocksmoor  children 
this  morning.  It  seems  she  warned  them  last  Sunday  without 
saying  a  word  to  u«.' 

'  Sent  them  back  from  Church,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  Not  exactly  from  Ciiurch,'  said  Margaret. 

'  It  is  the  same  in  efiect,'  said  Ethel,  '  to  turn  them  from  school , 
for  if  they  did  try  to  go  alone,  the  pew-openers  would  drive  them  out.' 

'It  is  a  wretched  state  of  things  ! '  said  Dr.  May,  who  never 
wanted  much  provocation  to  begin  storming  about  parish  affairs. 
*  When  I  am  churchwarden  again,  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  about 
the  seats;  but  it's  no  sort  of  use,  while  Kamsden  goes  on  as  he  does.' 

'  Now  my  poor  children  are  done  for  ! '  said  Ethel.  '  They  will 
never  come  again.  And  it's  horrid,  papa ;  there  are  lots  of  town 
children  who  wear  immense  long  plaits  of  hair,  and  Mrs.  Ledwich 
never  interferes  with  them.  It  is  entirely  to  drive  the  poor  Cocks- 
moor  ones  away — for  nothing  else,  and  all  out  of  Fanny  Anderson's 
chatter.' 

'  Ethel,  my  dear,'  said  Margaret,  pleadingly. 

'  Didn't  I  tell  you,  Margaret,  how,  as  soon  as  Flora  knew  what 
Mrs.  Ledwich  was  going  to  do,  she  went  and  told  her  this  was  the 
children's  only  chance,  and  if  we  affronted  them  for  a  trifle,  there 
would  be  no  hope  of  getting  them  back.  She  said  she  was  sorry,  if 
we  were  interested  fur  them,  but  rules  must  not  be  broken ;  and 
when  Flora  spoke  of  all  who  do  wear  long  hair  unmolested,  she 
ehufiled  and  said,  f(ir  the  sake  of  the  teachers,  as  well  as  the  other 
children,  rags  and  dirt  could  not  be  allowed  ;  and  then  she  brought 
up  the  old  story  of  Miss  Boulder's  pencil,  though  she  has  found  it 
again,  and  ended  by  saying  Fanny  Anderson  told  her  it  was  a  serious 
annoyance  to  the  teachers,  and  she  was  sure  we  should  agree  with 
her,  that  something  was  due  to  voluntary  assistants  and  subscribers.' 

'  I  am  afraid  tliere  has  been  a  regular  set  at  them,'  said  Mar- 
garet, '  and  perhaps  they  are  troublesome,  poor  things.' 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN-.  127 

'  As  if  school  keeping  were  for  luxury  i '  said  Dr  May.  '  It  is 
tlie  worst  thing  I  have  heard  of  Mrs.  Ledwich  yet !  One's  blood 
boils  to  think  of  those  poor  children  being  cast  oflF  because  our  fine 
young  ladies  are  too  grand  to  teach  them  !  The  Clergyman  leaving 
his  work  to  a  set  of  conceited  women,  and  they  turning  their  backs 
ou  ignorance,  when  it  comes  to  their  door.  Voluntary  subscribers, 
indeed  !     I've  a  great  mind  I'll  be  one  no  longer.' 

'  Oh  !  papa,  that  would  not  be  fair — '  began  Ethel ;  but  Margaret 
knew  he  would  not  act  on  this,  squeezed  her  hand,  and  silenced  her. 

'  One  thing  I've  said,  and  I'll  hold  to  it,'  continued  Dr.  May ; 
'  if  they  outvote  Wilmot  again  in  your  Ladies'  Committee,  I'll  have 
no  more  to  do  with  them,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Dick  Maj-.  It  is  a 
scandal  the  way  things  are  done  here ! ' 

'  Papa,'  said  Richard,  who  had  all  the  time  been  standing  silent, 
^  Ethel  and  I  have  been  thinking,  if  you  approved,  whether  we 
could  not  do  something  towards  teaching  the  Cocksmoor  children, 
and  breaking  them  in  for  the  Sunday  s<;hool.' 

What  a  bound  Ethel's  heart  gave,  and  how  full  of  congratula- 
tion and  sympathy  was  the  pressure  of  Margaret's  hand ! 

'  What  did  you  think  of  doing  ?'  said  the  Doctor. 

Ethel  burnt  to  reply,  but  her  sister's  hand  admonished  her  to 
remember  her  compact.  Richard  answered,  '  We  thought  of  trying 
to  get  a  room,  and  going  perhaps  once  or  twice  a  week  to  give  them 
a  little  teaching.  It  would  be  little  enough,  but  it  might  do  some- 
thing towards  civilizing  them,  and  making  them  wish  for  more.' 

'  How  do  you  propose  to  get  a  room  ? ' 

'  I  have  reconnoitred,  and  I  think  I  know  a  cottage  with  a 
tolerable  kitchen,  which  I  dare  say  we  might  hire  for  an  afternoon 
for  sixpence-' 

'  Ethel,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  threw  herself  forward,  and 
sitting  on  the  ground  at  her  father's  feet,  exclaimed,  '  0  papa 
papa  !  do  say  we  may  ! ' 

'  What's  all  this  about  ?  '  said  the  Doctor,  surprised. 

'  Oh !  you  don't  know  how  I  have  thought  of  it  day  and  night 
these  two  months  ! ' 

'  What !  Ethel,  have  a  fancy  for  two  whole  months,  and  the  whole 
house  not  hear  of  it ! '  said  her  father,  with  a  rather  provoking  look 
of  incredulity.       • 

'  Richard  was  afraid  of  bothering  you,  and  wouldn't  let  me. 
But  do  speak,  papa.     May  we  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  see  any  objection.' 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  ecstacy.  '  Thank  you !  thank  you, 
papa  !  0  Ritchie  !  Oh  !  Margaret ! '  cried  she,  in  a  breathless 
voice  of  transport. 

'  You  have  worked  yourself  up  to  a  fine  pass,'  said  the  Doctor, 
patting  the  agitated  girl  fondly  as  she  leant  against  his  knee.  '  Re- 
member, slow  and  steady.' 


128  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

'  I've  got  Richard  to  help  me,'  said  Ethel. 

'  Sufficient  guarantee,'  said  her  father,  smiling  archly  as  he  looted 
up  to  his  son,  Avhose  fair  face  had  coloured  deep  red.  '  You  will 
keep  the  Unready  in  order,  llitchie.' 

'  lie  does,'  said  Margaret ;  *  he  has  taken  her  education  into  his 
hands,  and  I  really  believe  he  has  taught  her  to  hold  up  her  frock 
and  stick  in  pins.' 

'  And  to  know  her  right  hand  from  her  left.  Eh,  Ethel  ?  Well, 
you  deserve  some  credit,  then.  Suppose  we  ask  Mr.  Wilmot  to  tea, 
and  talk  it  over.' 

'  O  thank  you,  papa  !     "When  shall  it  be  ?     To-morrow  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  if  you  like,  I  have  to  go  to  the  town-council  meeting 
and  am  not  going  into  the  country,  bo  I  shall  be  in  rarly.' 

'  Thank  you.     O  how  very  nice  ! ' 

'  And  what  about  cost  ?     Do  you  expect  to  rob  me  ? ' 

*  If  you  would  help  us,'  said  Ethel,  with  an  odd  shy  manner; 
'  we  meant  to  make  what  we  have  go  as  far  as  may  be,  but  mine  i.' 
only  fifteen  and  sixpence.' 

'  Well,  you  must  make  interest  with  Margaret  for  the  turn-out 
of  my  pocket  to-morrow.' 

'  Thank  you,  we  are  very  much  obliged,'  said  the  brother  and 
sister,  earnestly,  '  that  is  more  than  we  expected.' 

'  Ila  !  don't  thank  too  soon.  Suppose  to-morrow  should  be  a 
blank  day.' 

*  Oh,  it  won't ! '  said  Ethel.  '  I  shall  tell  Norman  to  make  you 
go  to  paying  people.' 

'  There's  avarice  ! '  said  the  Doctor.  '  But  look  you  here,  Ethel, ^ 
if  you'll  take  my  a.dvice,  you'll  make  your  bargain  for  Tuesday.  I 
have  a  note  appointing  me  to  call  at  Abbotstoke  Grange  on  Mr. 
Ilivers,  at  twelve  o'clock,  on  Tuesday.  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Ethel  ?  An  old  banker,  rich  enough  for  his  daughter  to  curl  her 
hair  in  bank  notes.     If  I  were  you,  I'd  make  a  bargain  for  him.' 

'  If  he  had  nothing  the  matter  with  him,  and  I  only  got  one 
guinea  out  of  him  ! ' 

'  Prudence  !     Well,  it  may  be  wiser.' 

Ethel  ran  up  to  her  room,  hardly  able  to  believe  that  the  mighty 
proposal  was  made;  and  it  had  been  so  readily  granted,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  Richard\s  caution  had  been  vain  in  making  such  a  delay,  that 
even  Margaret  had  begun  to  fear  that  the  street  of  by-and-by  was 
leading  to  the  house  of  never.  Now,  however,  it  was  plain  that  ho 
had  been  wise.  Opportunity  was  everything;  at  another  moment, 
their  father  might  have  been  harassed  and  oppressed,  and  unable 
to  give  his  nund  to  concerns,  which  now  he  could  think  of  with 
interest,  and  Richard  could  not  have  caught  a  more  favorable  con- 
juncture. 

Ethel  was  in  a  wild  state  of  felicity  all  that  evening  and  the  next 
lay,  very  unlike  her  brother,  who,  dismayed  at  the  open  step  ha 


THE    DAISY    CXMIN.  129 

had  taken,  shrank  into  himself,  and  in  his  shyness  dreaded  the  dis- 
cussion in  the  evening,  and  would  almost  have  been  relieved,  if 
Mr.  Wilmot  had  been  unable  to  accept  the  invitation.  So  quiet  and 
grave  was  he,  that  Ethel  could  not  get  him  to  talk  over  the  matter 
at  all  with  her,  and  she  was  obliged  to  bestow  all  her  trans- 
ports and  grand  projects  on  Flora  or  Margaret,  when  she  could  gain 
their  ears,  besides  conning  them  over  to  herself,  as  an  accompaniment 
to  her  lessons,  by  which  means  she  tried  Miss  Winter's  patience 
almost  beyond  measure.  But  she  cared  not — she  saw  a  gathering 
school  and  rising  Church,  which  eclipsed  all  thoughts  of  present 
inattentions  and  gaucheries.  She  monopolized  Margaret  in  the 
twilight,  and  rhapsodized  to  her  heart's  content,  talking  faster  and 
faster,  and  looking  more  and  more  excited.  Margaret  began  to 
feel  a  little  overwhelmed,  and  while  answering  '  yes '  at  intervals, 
was  considering  whether  Ethel  had  not  been  flying  about  in  an  absent 
inconsiderate  mood  all  day,  and  whether  it  would  seem  unkind 
to  damp  her  ardour,  by  giving  her  a  hint  that  she  was  relaxing  her 
guard  over  herself  Before  Margaret  had  steeled  herself,  Ethel  was 
talking  of  a  story  she  had  read,  of  a  place  something  like  Cocksmoor. 
Margaret  was  not  ready  with  her  recollection,  and  Ethel,  saying  it 
was  in  a  magazine  in  the  drawing-room  chiffoniere,  declared  she 
would  fetch  it. 

Margaret  knew  what  it  was  to  expect  her  visitors  to  return  '  in 
one  moment,'  and  with  a  '  now  or  never  '  feeling  she  began,  '  Ethel 
dear,  wait,'  but  Ethel  was  too  impetuous  to  attend.  '  I'll  be  back 
in  a  twinkling,'  she  called  out,  and  down  she  flew,  in  her  speed 
whisking  away,  without  seeing  it,  the  basket  with  Margaret's  knitting 
and  all  her  notes  and  papers,  which  lay  scattered  on  the  floor  far  out 
of  reach,  vexing  Margaret  at  first,  and  then  making  her  grieve  at 
her  own  impatient  feeling. 

Ethel  was  soon  in  the  drawlug-room,  but  the  right  number  of  the 
magazine  was  not  quickly  forthcoming,  and  in  searching  she  became 
embarked  in  another  story.  Just  then,  Aubrey,  whose  stout  legs 
were  apt  to  carry  him  into  every  part  of  the  house  where  he  was 
neither  expected  nor  wanted,  marched  in  at  the  open  door,  trying 
by  dint  of  vehement  gestures  to  make  her  understand,  in  his  imper- 
fect speech,  something  that  he  wanted.  Very  particularly  trouble- 
some she  thought  him,  more  especially  as  she  could  not  make  him 
out,  otherwise  than  he  wanted  her  to  do  something  with  the 
newspaper  and  the  fire.  She  made  a  boat  for  him  with  an  old 
newspaper,  a  very  hasty  and  frail  performance,  and  told  him  to  sail 
it  on  the  carpet,  and  be  Mr.  Ernesclifie  going  away;  and  she 
thought  him  thus  safely  disposed  of  Returning  to  her  book  and 
her  search,  with  her  face  to  the  cupboard,  and  her  book  held  up  to 
catch  the  light,  she  was  soon  lost  in  her  story,  and  thought  ot' 
nothing  more  till  suddenly  roused  by  her  father's  voice  in  the  hall, 
loud  and  peremptory  with  alarm,  '  Aubrey  !  put  that  down  ! '  She 
Vol.  I.— 6* 


130  THB  DAISY    CIIAES'. 

looked,  and  beheld  Aubrey  brandishing  a  great  flaming  paper — he 
dropped  it  at  the  exclamation — it  fell  burning  on  the  carpet. 
Aubrey's  white  pinafore !  Ethel  was  springing  up,  but  in  her 
cramped,  twisted  position,  she  could  not  do  so  quickly,  and  even  as 
he  called,  her  father  strode  by  her,  snatched  at  Aubrey's  merino 
frock,  which  he  crushed  over  the  scarcely  lighted  pinafore,  and 
trampled  out  the  flaming  paper  with  his  foot.  It  was  a  moment  of 
dreadful  fright,  but  the  next  assured  them  that  no  harm  was  done. 

'  Ethel !  '  cried  the  Doctor,  '  arc  you  mad  ?  What  were  you 
tliinking  of? ' 

Aul)rey,  here  recollecting  himself  enough  to  be  frightened  at  hia 
father's  voice  and  manner,  burst  into  loud  cries;  the  Doctor  pressed 
him  closer  on  his  breast,  caressed  and  soothed  him.  Ethel  stood 
by,  pale  and  transfixed  with  horror.  Her  father  was  more  angry 
with  her,  than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  and  with  reason,  as  she  knew, 
as  she  smelt  the  singeing,  and  saw  a  large  burnt  hole  in  Aubrey's 
pinafore,  while  the  front  of  his  frock  was  scorched  and  brown. 
Dr.  May's  words  were  not  needed,  *  What  could  make  you  let  him  ? ' 

'  I  didn't  see — '  she  faultered. 

'  Didn't  see  !  Didn't  look,  didn't  think,  didn't  care  !  That's  it, 
Ethel.  'Tis  very  hard  one  can't  trust  you  in  a  room  with  the 
child  an)'  more  than  the  baby  herself.  His  frock  perfect  tinder. 
He  would  have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  if  I  had  not  come  in ! ' 

Aubrey  roared  afresh,  and  Dr.  May,  kissing  and  comforting  him, 
gathered  him  up  under  his  left  arm,  and  carried  him  away,  looking 
back  at  the  door  to  say,  '  There's  no  bearing  it !  I'll  put  a  stop  to 
all  schools  and  Greek,  if  it  is  to  lead  to  this,  and  make  you  good  for 
nothing !  ' 

Ethel  was  too  much  terrified  to  know  where  she  was,  or  anything, 
but  that  she  had  let  her  little  brother  run  into  fearful  peril,  and 
grievously  angered  her  father ;  she  was  afraid  to  follow  him,  and 
stood  still,  annihilated,  and  in  despair,  till  roused  by  his  return, 
then,  with  a  stifled  sob,  she  exclaimed,  '  Oh,  papa  ! '  and  could  get 
no  further  fur  a  gush  of  tears. 

But  tlie  anger  of  the  shock  of  terror  was  over,  and  Dr.  May  was 
sorry  for  her  tears,  tliougli  still  he  could  not  but  manifest  some 
displeasure.  '  Yes,  Ethel,'  he  said,  '  it  was  a  frightful  thing,'  and 
he  could  not  but  shudder  a^ain.  '  One  moment  later !  ll;  is  an 
escape  to  be  for  ever  thankful  for — poor  little  fellow — but  Ethel, 
Ethel,  do  let  it  be  a  warning  to  you.' 

<  O,  I  hope— I'll  try—'  sobbed  Ethel. 

'  You  have  said  you  would  try  before.' 

'  I  know  I  have,'  said  Ethel,  choked.     '  If  I  could  but  — 

'Poor  child,' said  Dr.   May,  sadly;  then  looking  earnestly  at 

her,  '  Ethel,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  of  its  being  with  you  as — as  it 

has  been  with  me ; '  he  spoke  very  low,  and  drew  her  close  to  him. 

I  grew  up.  thinking  my  inbred   heedlessness  a  snrt  of  grace,  so  to 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  131 

eay.  rather  manly — the  reverse  of  finikin.  I  was  spoilt  as  a  boy 
and  my  Maggie  carried  on  the  spoiling,  by  never  letting  me  feel  its 
effects.  By  the  time  I  had  sense  enough  to  regret  this  as  a  fault, 
I  had  grown  too  old  for  changing  of  ingrain,  long-nurtured  habits — 
perhaps  I  never  wished  it  really.  You  have  seen,'  and  his  voice  was 
nearly  inaudible, '  what  my  carelessness  has  come  to — let  that  suffice 
at  least,  as  a  lesson  that  may  spare  you — what  your  father  must 
feel  as  long  as  he  lives.' 

He  pressed  his  hand  tightly  on  her  shoulder,  and  left  her,  with- 
out letting  her  see  his  face.  Shocked  and  bewildered,  she  hurried 
up-stairs  to  Margaret.  She  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  felt  her 
arms  round  her,  and  heard  her  kind  soothing,  and  then,  in  broken 
words,  told  how  dreadful  it  had  been,  and  how  kind  papa  had  been, 
and  what  he  had  said,  which  was  now  the  uppermost  thought.  '  Oh  ! 
Margaret,  Margaret,  how  very  terrible  it  is !  And  does  papa  really 
think  so  ? ' 

'  I  believe  he  does,'  whispered  Margaret. 

'  How  can  he,  can  he  bear  it !'  said  Ethel,  clasping  her  hands, 
'  0  it  is  enough  to  kill  one — I  can't  think  why  it  did  not !  ' 

'  He  bears  it,'  said  Margaret,  '  because  he  is  so  very  good,  that 
help  and  comfort  do  come  to  him.  Dear  papa  !  He  bears  up  be- 
cause it  is  right,  and  for  our  sakes,  and  he  has  a  sort  of  rest  in  that 
perfect  love  they  had  for  each  other.  He  knows  how  she  would 
wish  him  to  cheer  up  and  look  to  the  end,  and  support  and  comfort 
are  given  to  him,  I  know  they  are ;  but  oh,  Ethel !  it  does  make 
one  tremble  and  shrink,  to  think  what  he  has  been  going  through 
this  autumn,  espe?ially  when  I  hear  him  moving  about  late  at  night, 
and  now  and  then  comes  a  heavy  groan — whenever  any  especial 
care  has  been  on  his  mind.' 

Ethel  was  in  great  distress.  '  To  have  grieved  him  again  ! '  said 
shv;,  '  and  just  as  he  seemed  better  and  brighter  !  Everything  I  do 
turns  out  wrong,  and  always  will ;  I  can't  do  anything  well  by  any 
chance.' 

'  Yes  you  can,  when  you  mind  what  you  are  about.' 

'  But  I  never  can — I'm  like  him,  everyone  says  so,  and  he  says 
the  heedlessness  is  ingrain,  and  can't  be  got  rid  of 

'  Ethel,  I  don't  really  think  he  could  have  told  you  so.' 

'  I'm  sure  he  said  ingrain.' 

'  AVell,  I  suppose  it  is  part  of  his  nature,  and  that  you  have  in- 
herited it,  but—'  Margaret  paused — and  Ethel  exclaimed, 

'  Hq  said  his  was  long-nurtured ;  yes,  Margaret,  you  guessed 
right,  and  he  said  he  could  not  change  it,  and  no  more  can  I.' 

'  Surely,  Ethel,  you  have  not  had  so  many  years.  You  are 
fifteen  instead  of  forty-six,  and  it  is  more  a  woman's  work  than  a 
man's  to  be  careful.  You  need  not  begin  to  despair.  You  were 
growing  much  better  ;  Richard  said  so,  and  so  did  Miss  Winter.' 

'  What's  the  use  if  it,  if  in  one  moment  it  is  as  bad  as  ever  ? 


13.2  THE  DAISY   CHAIN. 

A.nd  to-day,  of  all  days  ia  the  year,  just  when  papa  had  been  3t 
very,  very  kind,  and  given  me  more  than  I  asked.' 

'  Do  you  know,  Ethel,  I  was  thinking  whether  dear  mamma 
would  not  say  that  was  the  reason.  You  were  so  happy,  that  per 
haps  you  were  thrown  off  your  guard.' 

*  I  should  not  wonder  if  that  was  it,'  said  Ethel,  thoughtfully. 
'  You  know  it  was  a  sort  of  probation  that  Richard  put  me  on.  I 
was  to  learn  to  be  steady  before  he  spoke  to  papa,  and  now  it  seemed 
to  be  all  settled  and  right,  and  perhaps  I  forgot  I  was  to  be  careful 
still.' 

'  I  think  it  was  something  of  the  kind.  I  was  a  little  afraid 
before,  and  I  wish  I  had  tried  to  caution  you,  but  I  did  not  like 
to  seem  unkind.' 

'  I  wish  you  had,'  said  Ethel.  '  Dear  little  Aubrey  !  Oh  !  if 
papa  had  not  been  there !  And  I  cannot  think  how,  as  it  was,  he 
could  contrive  to  put  the  fire  out,  with  his  one  hand,  and  not  hurt 
himself.  Margaret,  it  was  terrible.  How  could  I  mind  so  little  ! 
Did  you  see  how  his  frock  was  singed  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  papa  showed  it  to  me.  How  can  we  be  thankful  enough  ! 
One  thing  I  hope,  that  Aubrey  was  well  frightened,  poor  little  boy.' 

'  I  know  !  I  see  now  ! '  cried  Ethel,  '  he  must  have  wanted  me 
to  make  the  fire  blaze  up,  as  Richard  did  one  evening  when  we 
came  in  and  found  it  low ;  I  remember  Aubrey  clapping  his  hands 
and  shoutuig  at  the  flame ;  but  my  head  was  in  that  unhappy  story, 
and  I  never  had  sense  to  put  the  things  together,  and  reflect  that 
he  would  try  to  do  it  himself.  I  only  wanted  to  get  him  out  of  my 
way,  dear  little  fellow.  0 !  dear,  how  bad  it  was  of  me  !  All  from 
being  uplifted,  and  my  head  turned,  as  it  used  to  be  when  we  werp 
happier.     Oh  !  I  wish  Mr.  Wilraot  was  not  coming!' 

Ethel  sat  for  a  long  time  with  her  head  hidden  in  Margaret's 
pillows,  and  her  hand  clasped  by  her  good  elder  sister.  At  last  she 
looked  up  and  said,  '  0  3Iargaret,  i  am  so  unhappy.  I  see  the 
whole  meaning  of  it  now.  Do  you  not  ?  When  papa  gave  his  con- 
sent at  last,  I  was  pleased  and  set  up,  and  proud  of  my  plans.  I 
never  recollected  what  a  silly,  foolish  girl  I  am,  and  how  unfit.  I 
thought  Mr.  Wilmot  would  think  great  things  of  it — it  was  all 
wrong  and  self-satisfied.  I  never  prayed  at  all  that  it  might  turn 
out  well,  and  so  now  it  won't.' 

*  Dearest  Ethel,  I  don't  see  that.  Perhaps  it  will  do  all  the 
better  for  your  being  humbled  about  it  now.  If  you  were  wild  and 
high  flying,  it  would  never  go  right.' 

*  It's  hope  is  in  Richard,' said  Ethel. 

*  So  it  is,'  said  3Iargaret. 

'  I  wish  Mr.  "Wilmot  was  not  coming  to-night,'  said  Ethel  again- 
It  would  serve  me  right  if  papa  were  to  say  nothing  about  it.' 

Ethel  lingered  with  her  sister  till  Harry  and  Mary  came  up 
with  Margaret's  tea,  and  summoned  her,  and  she  crept  down  stairs, 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  133 

and  entered  the  room  so  quietly,  that  she  was  hardly  perceived  be 
hind  her  boisterous  brother.  She  kpew  her  eyes  were  in  no  pre 
sentable  state,  and  cast  them  down,  and  shrank  back  as  Mr.  "Wilmot 
shook  her  hand  and  greeted  her  kindly. 

Mr.  Wilmot  had  been  wont  to  come  to  tea,  whenever  he  had 
anything  to  say  to  Dr.  or  Mrs.  May,  which  was  about  once  in  ten  oi 
twelve  days.  He  was  Mary's  godfather,  and  their  most  intimate 
friend  in  the  town,  and  he  had  often  been  with  them,  both  as  friend 
and  Clergyman,  through  their  trouble — no  later  than  Christmas- 
Day,  he  had  come  to  bring  the  feast  of  that  day  to  Margaret  in  her 
sick  room.  Indeed,  it  had  been  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  Mays 
that  he  had  resolved  to  spend  the  holidays  at  Stoneborough  taking 
the  care  of  Abbotstoke,  while  his  brother,  the  Vicar,  went  to  visit 
their  father.  This  was,  however,  the  first  time  he  had  come  in  his 
old  familiar  way  to  spend  an  evening,  and  there  was  something  in 
the  resumption  of  former  habits  that  painfully  marked  the  change. 

Ethel,  on  coming  in,  found  Flora  making  tea,  her  father  leaning 
back  in  his  great  chair  in  silence,  Richard  diligently  cutting  bread, 
and  Blanche  sitting  on  Mr.  Wilmot's  knee,  chatting  fast  and  con- 
fidentially. Flora  made  Harry  dispense  the  cups,  and  called  every- 
one to  their  places ;  Ethel  timidly  glanced  at  her  father's  face,  as 
he  rose  and  came  into  the  light.  She  thought  the  lines  and  hollows 
were  more  marked  than  ever,  and  that  he  .looked  fatigued  and 
mournful,  and  she  felt  cut  to  the  heart ;  but  he  began  to  exert  him- 
self, and  to  make  conversation,  not,  however,  about  Cocksmoor,  but 
asking  Mr.  Wilmot  what  his  brother  thought  of  his  new  squire,  Mr. 
Rivers. 

'  He  likes  him  very  much,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot.  '  He  is  a  very 
pleasing  person,  particularly  kind-hearted  and  gentle,  and  likely  to 
do  a  great  deal  for  the  parish.  They  have  been  giving  away  beef 
and  blankets  at  a  great  rate  this  Christmas.' 

*  What  family  is  there  ? '  asked  Flora. 

'  One  daughter,  about  Ethel's  age,  is  there  with  her  governess. 
He  has  been  twice  married,  and  the  first  wife  left  a  son,  who  is  in 
the  dragoons,  I  believe.  This  girl's  mother  was  Lord  Cosham's 
daughter.' 

So  the  talk  lingered  on,  without  much  interest  or  life.  It  was 
rather  keeping  from  saying  nothing  than  conversation,  and  no  one 
was  without  the  sensation  that  she  was  missing,  round  whom  all  had 
been  free  and  joyous — not  that  she  had  been  wont  to  speak  much 
herself,  out  nothing  would  go  on  smoothly  or  easily  without  her. 
So  long  did  this  last,  that  Ethel  began  to  think  her  father  meant  to 
punish  her  by  not  beginning  the  subject  that  night,  and  though  she 
owned  that  she  deserved  it,  she  could  not  help  being  very  much 
disappointed. 

At  length,  however,  her  father  began  :  '  We  wanted  you  to  talk 
over  a  scheme  that  these  young  ones  have  been  concocting.     You 


134  THE   DAISY   CHADf. 

Kce,  I  am  obliged  to  keep  Richard  at  home  this  nest  term — it  wouM 
do  to  liave  no  one  in  the  house  to  carry  poor  Margaret.  We  eau't 
do  without  him  any  way,  go  he  and  Ethel  have  a  scheme  of  seeing 
what  can  be  done  for  that  wretched  place,  Cocksmoor.' 

'  Indeed  ! '  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  brightening  and  looking  interested. 
'  It  is  sadly  destitute.  It  would  be  a  great  thing  if  anything  could 
be  done  for  it.  You  have  brought  some  children  to  school  already 
E  think.  I  saw  some  rough-looking  boys,  who  said  they  came  from 
Cocksmoor.' 

This  embarked  the  Doctor  in  the  history  of  the  ladies  being  too 
fine  to  teach  the  poor  Cocksmoor  girls,  which  he  told  with  kindling 
vehemence  and  indignation,  growing  more  animated  every  moment, 
as  he  stormed  over  the  wonted  subject  of  the  bad  systen  of  manage- 
ment— ladies'  committee — negligent  incumbent — insufficient  clergy 
— misappropriated  tithes — while  Mr.  AVilmot,  who  had  mourned 
over  it,  within  himself,  a  hundred  times  already,  and  was  doing  a 
Curate's  work  on  sufferance,  with  no  pay,  and  little  but  mistrust 
from  Mr.  Ramsden,and  absurd  false  reports  among  the  more  foolish 
part  of  the  town,  sat  listening  patiently,  glad  to  hear  the  Doctor  in 
his  old  strain,  though  it  was  a  hopeless  matter  for  discussion,  and 
Ethel  dreaded  that  the  lamentation  would  go  ou  till  bed-time,  and 
Cocksmoor  be  quite  forgotten. 

After  a  time  they  came  safely  back  to  the  project,  and  Richard 
was  called  on  to  explain.  Ethel  left  it  all  to  him,  and  he,  with 
rising  colour,  and  quiet,  unhesitating,  though  diffident  manner,  de- 
tailed designs  that  showed  themselves  to  have  been  well  matured.  Mr. 
Wilmot  heard,  cordially  approved,  and,  as  all  agreed  that  no  time 
was  to  be  lost,  while  the  holidays  lasted,  he  undertook  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Ramsdon  on  the  subject  the  next  morning,  and  if  his  consent 
to  their  schem  -)s  could  be  gained,  to  come  in  the  afternoon  to  walk 
with  Richard  and  Ethel  to  Cocksmoor,  and  set  their  affairs  in  order. 
All  the  time  Ethel  said  not  a  word,  except  when  referred  to  by  her 
brother ;  but  when  Mr.  Wilmot  took  leave,  he  shook  her  hand 
warmly,  as  if  he  was  much  pleased  with  her.  '  Ah  !  '  she  thought, 
'  if  he  knew  how  ill  I  have  behaved  !  It  is  all  show  and  hoUownesa 
with  me.' 

8he  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Wilmot  thought  her  silence  one  of 
the  best  signs  for  the  plan,  nor  how  much  more  doubtful  he  would 
have  thought  her  perseverance,  if  he  had  seen  her  wild  and  vehement. 
As  it  was,  he  was  very  much  pleased,  and  when  the  Doctor  came  out 
with  him  into  the  hall,  he  could  not  help  expressing  his  satisfaction 
in  Richard's  well-judged  and  sensibly-described  project. 

*  Aye,  aye  ! '  said  the  Doctor, '  there's  much  more  in  the  boy  than 
I  used  to  think,  lie's  a  capital  fellow,  and  more  like  his  mother 
than  any  of  them.' 

'  He  is,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot;  '  there  was  a  just,  well-weighed  sens-J 
and  soberness  in  his  plans  that  put  me  in  mind  of  her  every  moment. 


THE    DAISr    CHAIN.  135 

Dr.  May  gave  his  hand  a  squeeze,  full  of  feeling,  and  went  up  to 
tell  Margaret.  She,  on  the  first  opportunity  told  Kichard,  and  made 
him  happier  than  he  had  heen  for  months,  not  so  much  in  Mr.  "Wil- 
mot's  words,  as  in  his  father's  assent  to,  and  pleasure  in  them. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Pitch  thy  behaviour  low,  thy  projects  hig't 

So  Shalt  thou  humble  and  magnanimous  be  ; 
Sink  not  in  spirit;  who  aimeth  at  the  sky 

Shoots  higher  much  than  he  that  means  a  tree. 
A  grain  of  glory  mixed  with  humbleness, 
Cures  both  a  fever  and  lethargicitss.' 

Heebekt. 

'  Norman,  do  you  feel  up  to  a  long  day's  work  ? '  said  Dr.  May,  en 
the  following  morning.  '  I  have  to  set  off  after  breakfast  to  see 
old  Mrs.  Gould,  and  to  be  at  Abbotstoke  Grange  by  twelve ;  then 
I  thought  of  going  to  Fordholm,  and  getting  Mrs.  Cleveland  to 
give  us  some  luncheon — there  are  some  poor  people  on  they  way  to 
look  at ;  and  that  girl  on  Far-view  Hill ;  and  there's  another  place 
to  call  at  in  coming  home.  You'll  have  a  good  deal  of  sitting  in 
the  carriage,  holding  "Whitefoot,  so  if  you  think  you  shall  be  cold  or 
tu-ed,  don't  scruple  to  say  so,  and  I'U^ake  Adams  to  drive  me.' 

'  No,  thank  you,'  said  Norman,  briskly.     '  This  frost  is  famous.' 

'  It  will  turn  to  rain,  I  expect— it  is  too  white,'  said  the  Doctor, 
looking  out  at  the  window.  '  How  will  you  get  to  Cocksmoor,  good 
people  V  ' 

'  Ethel  won't  believe  it  rains  unless  it  is  very  bad,'  said  Richard. 

Norman  set  out  with  his  father,  and  prosperously  performed  the 
expedition,  arriving  at  Abbotstoke  Grange  at  the  appointed  hour. 

'  Ha ! '  said  the  Doctor,  as  the  iron  gates  of  ornamental  scroll 
work  were  swung  back,  '  there's  a  considerable  change  in  this  place 
since  I  was  here  last.  Well  kept  up  indeed  !  Not  a  dead  leaf  left 
under  the  old  walnuts,  and  the  grass  looks  as  smooth  as  if  they  had 
a  dozen  gardeners  rolling  it  every  day.' 

'  And  the  drive,'  said  Norman,  '  more  like  a  garden-walk  than  a 
road  !     But  oh  !  what  a  splendid  cedar  !  ' 

'  Isn't  it !  I  remember  that  as  long  as  I  remember  anything. 
All  this  fine  rolling  of  turf,  and  trimming  up  of  the  place,  does  not 
make  much  difference  to  you,  old  fellow,  does  it  ?  You  don't  look 
altered  since  I  saw  you  last,  when  old  Jervis  was  letting  the  place 
go  to  rack  and  ruin.  So  they  have  a  new  entrance — very  handsome 
conservatory — flowers — the  banker  does  things  in  style.  There,'  as 
Norman  helped  him  off  with  his  plaid,  '  wrap  yourself  up  well,  don't 
get  cold.  The  sun  is  gone  in,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  the  rain 
were  coming  after  all.     I'll  not  be  longer  than  I  can  help.' 


136  TUL    DAISY    CHAIN. 

Dr.  May  disappeared  from  his  son's  sight  through  the  conserve 
tory,  where,  through  the  plate-glass,  the  exotics  looked  so  fresh  and 
perfumy,  that  NormaQ  almost  fancied  that  the  scent  reached  him. 
'How  much  poor  Margaret  would  enjoy  one  of  those  camellias,' 
thought  ho,  '  and  these  people  have  bushels  of  them  for  mere  show. 
If  I  were  papa,  I  should  be  tempted  to  be  like  Beauty's  father,  and 
carry  off  one.     How  she  would  admire  it ! ' 

NoriiKin  had  plenty  of  time  to  meditate  on  the  camellias,  and 
then  to  turn  and  speculate  on  the  age  of  the  cedar,  whether  it  could 
have  been  planted  by  the  monks  of  iStoneborough  Abbey,  to  whom 
the  Grange  had  belonged,  brought  from  Lebanon  by  a  pilgrim, 
perhaps ;  and  then  he  tried  to  guess  at  the  longevity  of  cedars,  and 
thought  of  asking  Margaret,  the  botanist  of  the  family.  Then  ho 
yawned,  moved  the  horse  a  little  about,  opined  that  Mr.  llivcr.s  :i'ust 
be  very  prosy,  or  have  some  abstruse  complaint,  considered  the  sky, 
and  augured  rain,  buttoned  another  button  of  his  rough  coat,  and 
thouglit  of  Miss  Cleveland's  dinner.  Then  he  thought  there  was  a 
very  sharp  wind,  and  drove  about  till  he  found  a  sheltered  place  on 
the  lee  side  of  the  great  cedar,  looked  up  at  it,  and  thought  it  would 
be  a  fine  subject  for  verses,  if  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  of  it,  and  then  jiro- 
cceded  to  consider  what  he  should  make  of  them. 

In  the  midst  he  was  suddenly  roused  by  the  deep-toned  note  of  a 
dog,  and  beheld  a  large  black  Newfoundland  dog  leaping  about  the 
horse  in  great  indignation.  .'  Rollo  !  Hollo  ! '  called  a  clear  young 
voice,  and  he  saw  two  ladies  returning  from  a  walk.  Rollo,  at  the 
first  call,  galloped  back  to  his  mistress,  and  was  evidently  receiving 
an  admonition,  and  promising  good  behaviour.  The  two  ladies  entered 
the  house,  while  he  lay  down  on  the  step,  with  his  lion-like  paw 
hanging  down,  watching  Norman  with  u  brilliant  pair  of  hazel  eyes. 
Norman,  after  a  little  more  wondering  when  Mr.  Kivers  would  have 
done  with  his  father,  betook  himself  to  civil  demonstrations  to  the 
creature,  who  received  them  with  dignity,  and  presently,  after  ac- 
knowledging with  hi?  tail,  various  whispers  of  'Good  old  fellow,' 
and  '  Here,  old  Hollo  ! "  having  apparently  satisfied  himself  that  the 
young  gentleman  was  respectable,  he  rose,  and  vouchsafed  to  stand 
up  with  his  fore-paws  in  the  gig,  listening  amiably  to  Norman's  deli- 
cate flatteries.  Norman  even  began  to  hope  to  allure  him  into  jump- 
ing on  the  seat ;  but  a  great  bell  rang,  and  Hollo  immediately  turned 
ound,  and  dashed  ofi",  at  full  speed,  to  some  back  region  of  the  house. 
So,  old  fellow,  you  know  what  the  dinner  bell  means,'  thought  Nor- 
.uau.  '  I  hope  Mr.  Kivers  is  liungry  too.  Miss  Cleveland  wmII  have 
eaten  up  her  whole  lunclicon,  if  this  old  bore  won't  let  my  father  go 
soon  !  1  hope  ho  is  desperately  ill — 'tis  his  only  excuse  !  Ilcigh 
ho  !  I  must  jump  out  to  warm  my  feet  soon  !  There,  there's  a  drop 
of  rain  !  Well,  there's  no  end  to  it !  I  wonder  what  Ethel  is  doing 
about  Cocksmoor.  It  is  setting  in  for  a  wet  afternoon! '  and  Normau 
disconsolately  put  up  his  umbrella. 


THE   DAISY    CnAIN.  137 

At  last  Dr.  May  and  another  gentleman  were  seen  in  the  consei^ 
ratorj,  and  Norman  gladly  proceeded  to-  clear  the  seat;  but  Dr, 
May  called  out,  '  Jump  out,  Norman,  Mr.  Eivers  is  so  kind  as  tc 
ask  us  to  stay  to  luncheon.' 

With  boyish  shrinking  from  strangers,  Norman  privately  wished 
Mr.  Rivers  at  Jericho,  as  he  gave  the  reins  to  a  servant,  and  entered 
the  conservatory,  where  a  kindly  hand  was  held  out  to  him  by  a 
gentleman  of  about  fifty,  with  a  bald  smooth  forehead,  soft  blue  eyes, 
and  gentle  pleasant  face.  '  Is  this  your  eldest  son  ?  '  said  he,  turning 
to  Dr.  May, — and  the  manner  of  both  was  as  if  they  were  already 
well  acquainted.  '  No,  this  is  my  second.  The  eldest  is  not  quite 
such  a  long-legged  fellew,'  said  Dr.  May.  And  then  followed  the 
question  addressed  to  Norman  himself,  where  he  was  at  school. 

'  At  Stoneborough,'  said  Norman,  a  little  amused  at  the  thought 
how  angry  Ethel  and  Harry  would  be  that  the  paragraph  of  the 
county  paper  where  '  N.  W.  May '  was  recorded  as  prizeman  and 
foremost  in  the  examination,  had  not  penetrated  even  to  Abbotstoke 
Grange,  or  rather  to  its  owner's  memory. 

However,  his  father  could  not  help  adding,  '  He  is  the  head  of 
the  school — a  thing  we  Stoneborough  men  think  much  of 

This,  and  Mr.  Ilivers's  civil  answer,  made  Norman  so  hot,  that 
he  did  not  notice  much  in  passing  through  a  hall  full  of  beautiful 
vases,  stufied  birds,  busts,  &c.  tastefully  arranged,  and  he  did  not 
look  up  till  they  were  entering  a  handsome  dining-room,  where  a 
small  square  table  was  laid  out  for  luncheon  near  a  noble  fire. 

The  two  ladies  were  there,  and  Mr.  Rivers  introduced  them  as 
his  daughter  and  Mrs.  Larpent.  It  was  the  most  luxurious  meal 
that  Norman  had  ever  seen,  the  plate,  the  porcelain,  and  all  the  ap- 
pointments of  the  table  so  elegant,  and  the  viands,  all  partaking  of 
the  Christmas  character,  and  of  a  recherche  delicate  description  quite 
new  to  him.  He  had  to  serve  as  his  father's  right  hand,  and  was  so 
anxious  to  put  everything  as  Dr.  May  liked  it,  and  without  attract- 
ing notice,  that  he  hardly  saw  or  listened  till  Dr.  May  began  to  ad- 
mire a  fine  Claude,  on  the  opposite  wall,  and  embarked  in  a  picture 
discussion.  The  Doctor  had  much  taste  for  art,  and  had  made  the 
most  of  his  opportunities  of  seeing  paintings  during  his  time  of  study 
at  Paris,  and  in  a  brief  tour  to  Italy.  Since  that  time,  few  good 
pictures  had  come  in  his  way,  and  these  were  a  great  pleasure  to  him, 
while  Mr.  Rivers,  a  regular  connoisseur,  was  delighted  to  meet  with 
one  who  could  so  well  appreciate  them.  Norman  perceived  how  his 
father  was  enjoying  the  conversation,  and  was  much  interested  both 
by  the  sight  of  the  first  fine  paintings  he  had  ever  seen,  and  by  the 
talk  about  their  merits ;  but  the  living  things  in  the  room  had  more 
of  his  attention  and  observation,  especially  the  young  lady  who  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table ;  a  girl  about  his  own  age  ;  she  was  on  a  very 
small  scale,  and  seemed  to  him  like  a  fairy,  in  the  airy  lightness  and 
grace  of  her  movements,  and  the  blithe  gladsomeness  of  her  gestures 


138  THE    DAISY   CIIAIX, 

and  countenance.  Form  and  features,  though  perfectly  healthful 
andbri.sk.  had  the  peculiar  finish  and  delicac}'  of  a  miniature  paint- 
ing, and  were  enhanced  by  the  sunny  glance  of  her  dark  soft  smiling 
eyes.  Her  hair  was  in  black  silky  braids,  and  her  dress,  with  its 
gaiety  of  well-assorted  colour,  was  positively  refreshing  to  his  eye,  sc 
long  accustomed  to  the  deep  mourning  of  his  sisters.  A  little  Italian 
greyhound,  perfectly  white,  was  at  her  side,  making  infinite  variations 
of  the  line  of  beauty  and  grace,  with  its  elegant  outline,  and  S-likc 
tail,  as  it  raised  its  slender  nose  in  hopes  of  a  fragment  of  bread 
which  she  from  time  to  time  dispensed  to  it. 

Luncheon  over,  Mr.  Rivers  asked  Dr.  May  to  step  into  his  li- 
brary, and  Norman  guessed  that  they  had  been  talking  all  this  time, 
and  had  never  come  to  the  medical  opinion.  However,  a  good  meal 
and  a  large  fire  made  a  great  difference  in  his  toleration,  and,  it  was 
so  new  a  scene,  that  he  had  no  objection  to  a  prolonged  waiting,  espe- 
cially when  Mrs.  Larpent  said,  in  a  very  pleasant  tone  '  AVill  you 
come  into  the  drawing-room  with  us  ?  ' 

lie  felt  somewhat  as  if  he  was  walking  in  enchanted  ground  as 
he  followed  her  into  the  large  room,  the  windows  opening  into  the 
conservatory,  the  whole  air  fragrant  with  flowers,  the  furniture  and 
ornaments  so  exquisite  of  their  kind,  and  all  such  a  fit  scene  for  the 
beautiful  little  damsel,  who,  with  her  slender  dog  by  her  side,  trip- 
ped on  demurely,  and  rather  shyly,  but  with  a  certain  skipping  light- 
ness in  her  step.  A  very  tall  overgrown  school-boy  did  Norman  feel 
himself  for  one  bashful  moment,  when  he  found  himself  alone  with 
the  two  ladies  ;  but  he  was  ready  to  bo  set  at  ease  by  Mrs.  Larpent's 
good-natured  manner,  when  she  said  something  of  Hollo's  discourtesy. 
He  smiled,  and  answered  that  he  had  made  great  friends  with  the 
fine  old  dog,  and  spoke  of  his  running  off  to  the  dinner,  at  which  lit 
tie  Miss  Ilivers  laughed,  and  looked  delighted,  and  began  to  tell  of 
Hollo's  perfections  and  intelligence.  Norman  ventured  to  inquire 
the  name  of  the  little  Italian,  and  was  told  it  was  Nipen,  because  it; 
had  once  stolen  a  cake,  much  like  the  wind  spirit  in  "  Feats  on  the 
L  iord."  Its  beauty  and  tricks  were  duly  displayed,  and  a  most  beau- 
tiful Australian  parrot  was  exhibited.  Mrs.  Larpent  taking  full 
interest  in  the  talk,  in  so  lively  and  gentle  a  manner,  and  she  and 
lier  pretty  pupil  evidently  on  such  sisterlike  terms,  that  Norman 
could  hardly  believe  her  to  be  the  governess,  when  he  thought  of 
Miss  Winter. 

Miss  Ilivers  took  up  some  brown  leaves  which  she  was  cutting 
out  with  scissors,  and  shaping. — '  Our  holiday  work,'  said  Mrs. 
Larpent,  in  an.swer  to  the  inquiring  look  of  Norman's  eyes.  '  Mcta 
ha.s  been  making  a  drawing  fur  her  papa,  and  is  framing  it  in  leather 
work.     Have  you  ever  seen  any  ?  ' 

'  Never ! '  and  Norman  looked  eagerly,  asking  questions,  and 
t\'atchiug  while  Miss  Ilivers  cut  out  her  ivy  leaf  and  marked  it? 
fcins.  and  showed  how  she  copied  it  from  nature.     He  thanked  her 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  13 'J 

saying,  '  I  wanted  to  learn  all  about  it,  for  I  thought  it  would  bo 
such  nice  work  for  my  eldest  sister.' 

A  glance  of  earnest  interest  from  little  Meta's  bright  eyos  at  her 
governess,  and  Mrs.  Larpent,  in  a  kind,  soft  tcne  that  quite  gained 
his  heart,  asked,  '  Is  she  the  invalid  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  said  Norman.     '  New  fancy  work  is  a  great  gain  to  her.' 

Mrs.  Larpent's  sympathetic  questions,  and  Meta's  softening  eyes, 
gradually  drew  from  him  a  great  deal  about  Margaret's  helpless  state, 
and  her  patience,  and  capabilities,  and  how  everyone  came  to  her 
with  all  their  cares ;  and  Norman,  as  he  spoke,  mentally  contrasted 
the  life,  untouched  by  trouble  and  care,  led  by  the  fair  girl  before 
him,  with  that  atmosphere  of  constant  petty  anxieties  round  her 
namesake's  couch,  at  years  so  nearly  the  same. 

'  How  very  good  she  must  be,'  said  little  Meta  quickly  and  softly ; 
and  a  tear  was  sparkling  on  her  eyelashes. 

'  She  is  indeed,'  said  Norman  earnestly.  '  I  don't  know  what  papa 
would  do  but  for  her.' 

Mrs.  Larpent  asked  kind  questions  whether  his  father's  arm  was 
very  painful,  and  the  hopes  of  its  cure ;  and  he  felt  as  if  she  was  a 
great  friend  already.  Thence  they  came  to  books.  Norman  had  not 
read  for  months  past,  but  it  happened  that  Meta  was  just  now  read- 
ing '  Woodstock,'  with  which  he  was  of  course  familiar  ;  and  both 
grew  eager  in  discussing  that  and  several  others.  Of  one,  Meta  spoke 
in  such  terms  of  delight,  that  Norman  thought  it  had  been  very 
stupid  of  him  to  let  it  lie  on  the  table  for  the  last  fortnight  without 
looking  into  it. 

He  was  almost  sorry  to  see  his  father  and  Mr.  Rivers  come  in,  and 
hear  the  carriage  ordered,  but  they  were  not  oiF  yet,  though  the  rain 
was  now  only  Scotch  mist.  Mr.  Rivers  had  his  most  choice  little 
pictures  still  to  display,  his  beautiful  early  Italian  masters,  finished 
like  illuminations,  and  over  these  there  was  much  lingering  and 
admiring.  Meta  had  whispered  something  to  her  governess,  who 
smiled,  and  advanced  to  Norman.  '  Meta  wishes  to  know  if  your  sis- 
ter would  like  to  have  a  few  flowers  ? '  said  she. 

No  sooner  said  than  done ;  the  door  into  the  conservatory  was 
opened,  and  Meta,  cutting  sprays  of  beautiful  geranium,  delicious 
heliotrope,  fragrant  calycanthus,  deep  blue  tree  violet,  and  exquisite 
hothouse  ferns ;  perfect  wonders  to  Norman,  who,  at  each  addition 
to  the  bouquet,  exclaimed  by  turns,  '  Oh  !  thank  you,'  and  '  how  she 
will  like  it ! ' 

Her  father  reached  a  maijnolia  blossom  from  on  hio-h,  and  the 
quick  warm  grateful  emotion  trembled  in  Dr.  May's  features  and 
voice,  as  he  said,  '  It  is  very  kind  in  you ;  you  have  given  my  poor 
girl  a  great  treat.     Thank  you  with  all  my  heart.' 

Margaret  Rivers  cast  down  her  eyes,  half  smiled,  and  shrank 
back,  thinking  she  had  never  felt  anything  like  the  left-handed  grasp, 
so  full  of  warmth  and  thankfulness.     It  gave  her  confidence  to  ven 


1-iO  THE   DAISY    CIIAIX. 

ture  on  the  one  question  on  which  she  was  bent.  Ilcr  father  was  iv 
the  hall,  showing  Norman  his  Greek  nymph;  and  lifting  her  eyes  tc 
Dr.  May's  face,  then  casting  them  down,  she  coloured  deeper  than 
ever,  as  she  said,  in  a  stammering  whisper,  '  0  please — if  you  would 
tell  me — do  you  think — is  papa  very  ill  ?  ' 

Dr.  May  answered  in  his  softest,  most  re-assuring  tones :  '  You  need 
not  be  alarmed  about  him,  I  assure  you.  You  must  keep  him  from  too 
much  business,'  he  added,  smiling  ;  '  make  him  ride  with  you,  and  not 
let  him  tire  himself,  and  I  am  sure  you  can  be  his  best  doctor.' 

'  But  do  you  think,'  said  Meta,  earnestly  looking  up, '  do  you  think 
he  will  be  quite  well  again  ?  ' 

'  You  must  not  expect  doctors  to  be  absolute  oracles,'  said  he. 
'  I  will  tell  you  what  I  told  him — I  hardly  think  his  will  ever  be 
sound  health  agaui,  but  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  many 
years  of  comfort,  and  there  is  no  cause  for  you  to  disquiet  yourself  on 
his  account — you  have  only  to  be  careful  of  him.' 

Meta  tried  to  say  '  thank  you,'  but  not  succeeding,  looked  implor- 
ingly at  her  governess,  who  spoke  for  her.  '  Thank  you,  it  is  a  great 
relief  to  have  an  opinion,  for  we  were  not  at  all  satisfied  about  Mr. 
Rivers.' 

A  few  words  more,  and  Meta  was  skipping  about  like  a  sprite 
finding  a  basket  for  the  flowers — she  had  another  shake  of  the  hand, 
another  grateful  smile,  and  '  thank  30U,'  from  the  Doctor  ;  and  then, 
as  the  carriage  disappeared,  ]Mrs.  Larpent  exclaimed,  '  What  a  very 
nice  intelligent  boy  that  was.' 

'  Particularly  gentlemanlike,'  said  Mr.  Hivers.  '  Very  clever — 
the  head  of  the  school,  as  his  father  tells  me — and  so  modest  and 
unassuming — though  I  sec  his  father  is  very  proud  of  him.' 

'  0,  I  am  sure  that  they  are  so  fond  of  each  other,'  said  ^leta ; 
'  didn't  you  see  his  attentive  ways  to  his  father  at  luncheon.  And, 
papa,  I  am  sure  you  must  like  Dr.  May,  Mr.  "Wilmot's  doctor,  as  much 
as  I  said  you  would.' 

'  He  is  the  most  superior  man  I  have  met  with  for  a  long  time,' 
said  Mr.  llivers.  '  It  is  a  great  acquisition  to  find  a  man  of  such  taste 
and  acquirements  in  this  country  neighbourhood,  when  there  is  not 
another  who  can  tell  a  Claude  from  a  Poussin.  I  declare,  when  once 
we  began  talking,  there  was  no  leaving  oflf — I  have  not  met  a  person 
of  so  much  conversation  since  I  left  town.  I  thought  you  would 
like  to  sec  him,  Meta.' 

*  I  hope  I  shall  know  the  Miss  Mays  some  time  or  other. 

'  That  is  the  prettiest  little  fairy  I  ever  did  see  I '  was  Dr.  May't 
remark,  as  Norman  drove  from  the  door. 

'  llow  good-natured  they  are! '  said  Norman  ;  '  I  just  said  some- 
thing about  Margaret,  and  she  gave  me  all  these  flowers.  How 
Margaret  will  be  delighted  !  I  wish  the  girls  could  see  it  all ! 

'  So  you  got  on  well  with  the  ladies,  did  you  ?' 


TUE   DAISY    CHAIN.  14] 

'  They  were  very  kind  to  me.  It  was  very  pleasant !  '  said  Nor- 
man, with  a  tone  of  enjoyment  that  did  his  father's  heart  good. 

'  I  was  glad  you  should  come  in.  Such  a  curiosity  shop  is  a 
sight,  and  those  pictures  were  some  of  them  well  worth  seeing. 
That  was  a  splendid  Titian.' 

'  That  cast  of  the  Pallas  of  the  Parthenon — how  beautiful  it 
was — I  kn-ew  it  from  the  picture  in  Smith's  dictionary.  Mr.  Rivera 
said  he  would  show  me  all  his  antiques  if  you  would  bring  me  again.' 

'  I  saw  he  liked  your  interest  in  them.  He  is  a  good,  kind-hearted 
dilettante  sort  of  old  man ;  he  has  got  all  the  talk  of  the  literary, 
cultivated  society  in  London,  and  must  find  it  dullish  work  here.' 

'  You  liked  him,  didn't  you  ?  ' 

'  He  is  very  pleasant — I  found  he  knew  my  old  friend,  Benson, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  since  we  were  at  Cambridge  together,  and  we 
got  on  that  and  other  matters — London  people  have  an  art  of  con- 
versation not  learnt  here,  and  I  don't  know  how  the  time  slipped 
away,  but  you  must  have  been  tolerably  tired  of  waiting.' 

'  Not  to  signify,'  said  Norman.  '  I  only  began  to  think  he  must 
be  very  ill ;  I  hope  there  is  not  much  the  matter  with  him.' 

'  I  can't  say.  I  am  afraid  there  is  organic  disease,  but  I  think 
it  may  be  kept  quiet  a  good  while  yet,  and  he  may  have  a  pleasant 
life  for  some  time  to  come,  arranging  his  prints,  and  petting  his 
pretty  daughter.     He  has  plenty  to  fall  back  upon.' 

'  Do  you  go  there  again  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  next  week.  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  shall  like  to  have  another 
look  at  that  little  Madonna  of  his — it  is  the  sort  of  picture  that  does  one 
good  to  carry  away  in  one's  eye.  Whay  !  Stop.  There's  an  old  woman 
in  here.     It  is  too  late  for  Pordholm,  but  these  cases  won't  wait.' 

He  went  into  the  cottage  and  soon  returned  saying,  '  Fine  new 
blaiikets,  and  a  great  kettle  of  soup,  and  such  praises  of  the  ladies  at 
the  Grange  ! '  And,  at  the  next  house,  it  was  the  same  story.  '  Well, 
'tis  no  mockery  now,  to  tell  the  poor  creatures  they  want  nourishing 
food.  Slices  of  meat  and  bottles  of  port  wine  rain  down  on  Abbot- 
stoke.' 

A  far  more  talkative  journey  than  usual  ensued  ;  the  discussion 
of  the  paintings  and  antiques  was  almost  equally  delightful  to  the 
father  and  son,  and  lasted  till,  about  a  mile  from  Stoneborough,  they 
descried  three  figures  in  the  twilight. 

'  Ha  !  How  are  you,  Wilmot  ?  So  you  braved  the  rain,  Ethel 
Jump  in,'  called  the  Doctor,  as  Norman  drew  up. 

'  I  shall  crowd  you — I  shall  hurt  your  arm,  papa;  thank  you.' 

'  No  you  won't — jump  in, — there's  room  for  three  thread-papers 
ill  one  gig.  Why  Wilmot,  your  brother  has  a  very  jewel  of  a  squire ; 
How  did  you  fare  ?  ' 

'  Very  well  on  the  whole,'  was  Mr.  Wilmot's  answer,  while  Ethel 
scrambled  in,  and  tried  to  make  herself  small,  an  art  in  which  she  was 
not  very  successful ;  and  Norman  gave  an  exclamation  of  horrified 


142  THE   DAISY   CIIAIK. 

warning,  as  she  wa.s  about  to  step  into  the  flowor-basket ;  then  she 
nearly  tumbled  out  a^ain  iu  dismay,  and  was  relieved  to  find  herself 
safely  wedged  in,  without  having  done  any  harm,  while  her  father 
called  out  to  Mr.  Wilmot,  as  they  started,  '  I  say  !  You  are  coming 
back  to  tea  with  us.' 

That  cheerful  tone,  and  the  kindness  to  herself,  were  a  rcfresh- 
uient  and  revival  to  Ethel,  wlio  was  still  sobered  and  shocked  by  her 
yesterday's  adventure,  and  by  the  sense  of  her  father's  sorrowful 
displeasure.  Expecting  further  to  be  scolded  for  getting  in  so 
awkwardly,  she  did  not  venture  to  volunteer  anything,  and  even 
when  he  kindly  said,  '  I  hope  you  are  prosperous  in  your  expedition,' 
she  only  made  answer,  in  a  very  grave  voice,  '  Yes,  papa,  we  have 
taken  a  very  nice  tidy  room.' 

*  What  do  you  pay  for  it  ?  ' 
'  Fourpence  for  each  time.' 

'  Well,  here's  for  you,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  It  is  only  two  guineas 
to-day;  that  banker  at  the  Grange  beguiled  us  of  our  time,  but  you 
had  better  close  the  bargain  for  him,  Ethel — he  will  be  a  revenue  for 
you,  for  this  winter  at  least.' 

'  0  thank  you,  papa,'  was  all  Ethel  could  say ;  overpowered  by  his 
kindness,  and  more  repressed  by  what  she  felt  so  unmerited,  than  she 
would  have  been  by  coldness,  she  said  few  words,  and  preferred  listen- 
ing to  Norman,  who  began  to  describe  their  adventures  at  the  Grange. 

All  her  eagerness  revived,  however,  as  she  sprung  out  of  the  car- 
riage, full  of  tidings  for  Margaret;  and  it  was  almost  a  race  between 
her  and  Norman  to  get  up-stairs,  and  unfold  their  separate  budgets. 

Margaret's  lamp  had  just  been  lighted,  when  they  made  their 
entrance,  Norman  holding  the  flowers  on  high. 

'  Oh!  how  beautiful,  how  delicious!  For  me?  Where  did  you 
get  them  ?  ' 

'  From  Abbotstoke  Grange  ;   Miss  llivers  sent  them  to  you.' 

'  How  very  kind  !  What  a  lovely  geranium,  and  oh,  that  fern  !  I 
never  saw  anything  so  choice.     How  came  she  to  think  of  me.' 

'  They  asked  me  in  because  it  rained,  and  she  was  making  the 
prettiest  things,  leather  leaves  and  flowers  for  picture  frame.«.  I 
thought  it  was  work  that  would  just  suit  you,  and  learnt  how  to  do  it. 
That  made  them  ask  about  you,  and  it  ended  by  her  sending  you 
this  no.segay.' 

'  How  very  kind  every  body  is  !  Well,  Ethel,  are  you  come  homo 
too?' 

*  Papa  picked  me  up — 0  Margaret,  we  have  found  such  a  nice 
room,  a  clean  sanded  kitchen — ' 

'  You  never  saw  such  a  conservatory — ' 

'  And  it  is  to  be  let  to  us  for  fourpence  a  time — ' 

*  The  house  is  full  of  beautiful  things,  pictures  and  statues.  Onlj 
think  of  a  real  Titian,  and  a  cast  of  the  Apollo  I  ' 


THE    DAISY   CHAIN.  ^4.3 

'Twenty  cLildren  lo  begin  with,  and  Richard  is  going  to  make 
60me  forms.' 

'Mr.  E-ivers  is  going  to  show  me  all  his  easts.' 

'  0,  is  he  ?  But  only  think  how  luck}- we  were  to  find  such  a  nice 
woman;  Mr.  Wilmot  was  so  pleased  with  her.' 

jSTorman  found  one  story  at  a  time  was  enough,  and  relinquished 
the  field,  contenting  himself  with  silently  helping  Margaret  to  arrange 
the  flowers,  holding  the  basket  for  her,  and  pleased  with  her  ges- 
tures of  admiration.  Ethel  went  on  with  her  history.  ^  The  first 
place  we  thought  of  would  not  do  at  all ;  the  woman  said  she  would 
not  take  half-a-crown  a  week  to  have  a  lot  of  children  stabbling  about, 
as  she  called  it ;  so  we  went  to  another  house,  and  there  was  a  very 
nice  woman  indeed,  Mrs.  Green,  with  one  little  boy,  whom  she 
wanted  to  send  to  school,  only  it  is  too  far.  She  says  she  always  goes 
to  Church  at  Fordholm  because  it  is  nearer,  and  she  is  quite  willing 
to  let  us  have  the  room.  So  we  settled  it,  and  nest  Friday  we  are 
to  begin.  Papa  has  given  us  two  guineas,  and  that  will  pay  for,  let 
me  see,  a  hundred  and  twenty-six  times,  and  Mr.  "Wilmot  is  going  to 
give  us  some  books,  and  Ritchie  will  print  some  alphabets.  AVe  told 
a  great  many  of  the  people,  and  they  are  so  glad.  Old  Granny  Hall 
said,  '  Well,  I  never  ! '  and  told  the  girls  they  must  be  as  good  as 
gold  now  the  gentlefolks  was  coming  to  teach  them.  Mr.  Wilmot 
is  coming  with  us  every  Friday  as^loug  as  the  holidays  last. 

Ethel  departed  on  her  father's  coming  in  to  ask  Margaret  if  she 
would  like  to  have  a  visit  from  Mr.  Wilmot.  She  enjoyed  this 
very  much,  and  he  sat  there  nearly  an  hour,  talking  of  many  mat- 
ters, especially  the  Cocksmoor  scheme,  on  which  she  was  glad  to 
hear  his  opinion  at  first  hand. 

'  I  am  very  glad  you  think  well  of  it,'  she  said.  'It  is  most 
desirable  that  something  should  be  done  for  those  poor  people,  and 
Richard  would  never  act  rashly ;  but  I  have  longed  for  advice  wheth- 
er it  was  right  to  promote  Ethel's  undertaking.  I  suppose  Richard 
told  you  how  bent  on  it  she  was,  long  before  papa  was  told  of  it.' 

'  He  said  it  was  her  great  wish,  and  had  been  so  for  a  long  time  past.' 

Margaret,  in  words  more  adequate  to  express  the  possession  the 
project  had  gained  of  Ethel's  ardent  mind,  explained  the  whole  his- 
tory of  it.  '  I  do  believe  she  looks  on  it  as  a  sort  of  call,'  said  she, 
'  and  I  have  felt  as  if  I  ought  not  to  hinder  her,  and  yet  I  did- not 
know  whether  it  wis  right,  at  her  age,  to  let  her  undertake  so  much.' 

'  I  understand,  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  '  but,  from  what  I  have  seen  of 
Ethel,  I  should  ihink  you  had  decided  rightly.  There  seems  tome 
to  be  such  a  spirit  of  energy  in  her,  that  if  she  does  not  act  she  will 
either  speculate  and  theorize,  or  pine  and  prey  on  herself  I  do 
believe  that  hard  homely  work,  such  as  this  school-keeping,  is  the 
best  outlet  for  what  might  otherwise  run  to  extravagance- —more 
especially  as  you  say  the  hope  of  it  has  already  been  an  incentive 
to  improvement  in  home  duties. 


14:4  Till;    DAISY    CHAIN, 

•  That  I  am  sure  it  has,'  .said  Margaret, 

'  Moreover,'  said  Mr.  Wiliuot,  '  I  think  you  weie  quite  right  in 
thinking  that  to  interfere  with  such  a  design  was  unsafe,  I  do 
believe  that  a  great  deal  of  harm  is  done  by  prudent  friends,  who 
dread  to  let  young  people  do  anything  out  of  the  common  way,  and 
so  force  their  aspirations  to  ferment  and  turn  sour,  for  want  of  being 
put  to  use.' 

'  Still  girls  are  told  they  ought  to  wait  patiently,  and  not  to  be 
eager  for  self-imposed  duties.' 

'  I  am  not  saying,  that  it  is  not  the  appointed  discipline  for  tho 
girls  themselves,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot.  'If  they  would  submit,  and  do 
their  best,  it  would  doubtless  prove  the  most  beneficial  thing  for 
them  ;  but  it  is  a  trial  in  which  they  often  fail,  and  I  had  rather  not 
be  in  the  place  of  such  friends.' 

'  It  is  a  great  puzzle  ! '  said  Margaret,  sighing. 

'  Ah  !  I  daresay  you  are  often  perplexed,'  said  her  friend,  kindly 

'  Indeed  I  am.  There  are  so  many  little  details  that  I  cannot 
be  alway  teasing  papa  with,  and  yet  which  I  do  believe  form  the 
character  more  than  the  great  events,  and  I  never  know  whether  I 
act  for  the  best.  And  there  are  so  many  of  us,  so  many  duties,  I 
cannot  half  attend  to  any.  Lately,  I  have  been  giving  up  almost 
everything  to  keep  this  room  quiet  for  Norman  in  the  morning, 
because  he  was  so  much  hai-assed  and  hurt  by  bustle  and  confusion, 
and  I  found  to-day  that  things  have  gone  wrong  in  consequence.' 

'  You  must  do  the  best  you  can,  and  try  to  trust  that  while  you 
work  in  the  right  spirit,  your  failures  will  be  compensated,'  said 
Mr.  Wilmot.     '  It  is  a  hard  trial.' 

'  I  like  your  understanding  it,'  said  Margaret,  smiling  sadly. 
'  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  silly,  but  I  don't  like  to  be  pitied  for 
the  wrong  tiling.  My  being  so  helpless  is  what  everyone  laments 
over;  but,  after  all,  that  is  made  up  to  me  by  the  petting  and  kind- 
ness I  get  from  all  of  them :  but  it  is  the  being  mistress  of  the 
house,  and  having  to  settle  for  everyone,  without  knowing  whether  I 
do  right  or  wrong,  that  is  my  trouble.' 

'  I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  it  is  right  to  call  it  a  trouble, 
though  it  is  a  trial.' 

'  i  see  what  you  mean,'  said  Margaret.  '  I  ought  to  be  thankful. 
I  know  it  is  an  honour,  and  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  be  grieved  if 
they  did  not  all  come  to  me  and  consult  me  as  they  do.  I  had 
better  not  have  complained,  and  yet  I  am  glad  I  did,  for  I  like  you 
to  understand  my  difficulties.' 

'  And,  indeed,  I  wish  to  enter  into  them,  and  do  or  say  anything 
in  my  power  to  help  you.  But  I  don't  know  anything  that  can  be 
of  so  much  comfort  as  the  knowledge  that  He  who  laid  the  burden 
on  you,  will  help  to  bear  it.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Margaret,  pausing;  and  then,  with  a  sweet  look, 
though  a  heavy  sigh,  she  said,  '  It  is  very  odd  how  things  turn  out ! 


THE   DAISY   CIIAm.  145 

r  always  had  a  childisli  fancy  that  I  would  be  useful  and  important, 
but  I  little  thought  how  it  would  be  !  However,  as  long  as  lliehard 
is  in  the  house,  I  always  feel  secure  about  the  others,  and  I  shall  soon 
be  downstairs  myself.     Don't  you  think  dear  papa  in  better  spirits  ?  ' 

'  I  thought  so  to-day — '  and  here  the  Doctor  returned,  talking 
of  Abbotstoke  G-range,  where  he  had  certainly  been  much  pleased. 
'  It  was  a  lucky  chance,'  he  said,  '  that  they  brought  Norman  in. 
It  was  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  rouse  and  interest  him,  and  he  took 
it  all  in  so  well,  that  I  am  sure  they  were  pleased  with  him.  I 
thought  he  looked  a  very  lanky  specimen  of  too  much  leg  and  arm 
when  I  called  him  in,  but  he  has  such  good  manners,  and  is  so  ready 
and  understanding,  that  they  could  not  help  liking  him.  It  was 
fortunate  I  had  him  instead  of  Richard. — Eitchie  is  a  very  good 
fellow,  certainly,  but  he  had  rather  look  at  a  steam-engine,  any  day, 
than  at  Raffaelle  himself.' 

Norman  had  his  turn  by-and-by.  He  came  up  after  tea,  report- 
ing that  papa  was  fast  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  the  others  would  go 
on  about  Cocksmoor  till  midnight,  if  they  were  let  alone  ;  and  made 
up  for  his  previous  yielding  to  Ethel,  by  giving,  with  much  anima- 
tion, and  some  excitement,  a  glowing  description  of  the  Grange,  so 
»raphic,  that  Margaret  said  she  could  almost  fancy  she  had  been  there. 

'  0  Margaret,  I  wonder  if  you  ever  will !  I  would  give  some- 
thing for  you  to  see  the  beautiful  conservatory.  It  is  a  real  bower 
for  a  maiden  of  romance,  with  its  rich  green  fragrance  in  the  midst 
of  winter.  It  is  like  a  picture  in  a  dream.  One  could  imagine  it  a 
fairy  land,  where  no  care,  or  grief,  or  weariness  could  come,  all 
choice  beauty  and  sweetness  waiting  on  the  creature  within.  I  can 
hardly  believe  that  it  is  a  real  place,  and  that  I  have  seen  it.' 

'  Though  you  have  brought  these  pretty  tokens  that  your  fairy  is 
as  good  as  eh  ?  is  fair,'  said  Margaret,  smiling. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

EvAxs.    Peace  j-our  tattlings.    What  is  fair,  William? 

William.    Pclcuek. 

QcicKLY.     Poulcats!  tbere  are  fairer  things  than  poulcats  snre ! 

EvAXS.    I  pray  you  have  your  remembrance,  child,  accusative  Hixa  hang  egg. 

Quickly.    Hajsg  hog  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  warrant  you. 

Shakespeaee. 

].N  a  large  family  it  must  often  happen,  that  sinee  every  member  of 
it  cannot  ride  the  same  hobby,  nor  at  the  same  time,  their  several 
steeds  must  sometimes  run  counter  to  each  other  ;  and  so  Ethel  found 
it,  one  morning  when  Miss  Winter,  having  a  bad  colJ,  had  given  her 
an  unwonted  holiday. 

Mr.  TVilmot  had  sent  a  large  parcel  of  books  for  her  to  choose 
Prom  for  Cocksmoor,  but  this  she  could  not  well  do  without  consulta- 
VoL.  I.— 7 


14G  THE   DAISY   CHAIN, 

tion.  The  multitude  bewildered  her,  she  was* afraid  of  taking  toe 
many  or  too  few,  aud  the  being  brought  to  these  practical  details 
made  her  sciusible  that  though  her  schemes  were  very  grand  and 
full  for  future  doings,  they  passed  very  lightly  over  the  intermediate 
ground.  The  '  Faulu  post  futuriim  '  was  a  period  much  more  de- 
veloped in  her  imagination  than  the  future,  that  the  present  was 
flowing  into. 

^\'here  was  her  coadjutor,  llichard  ?  "Writing  notes  for  papa, 
and  not  to  be  disturbed.  She  had  better  have  waited  tranquilly, 
but  this  would  not  suit  her  impatience,  and  she  ran  up  to  Marf^aret'a 
room.  There  she  found  a  great  display  of  ivy  leaves,  which  Nor- 
man, who  had  been  turning  half  the  shops  in  the  town  upside  down 
in  search  of  materials,  was  instructing  her  to  imitate  in  leather  work 
— a  regular  mania  with  him,  and  apparently  the  same  with  Margaret. 

In  came  Ethel.  '  Oh  !  Margaret,  will  you  look  at  these  "  First 
Truths  ?  "  Do  you  think  they  would  be  easy  enough  ?  Shall  I 
take  some  of  the  "  Parables  "  and  ''  Miracles"  at  ont-e,  or  content 
myself  with  the  book  about  "  Jane  Sparks  ?  "  ' 

'  There's  some  very  easy  reading  in  ''  Jane  Sparks,"  isn't  there  ? 
I  would  not  make  the  little  books  from  the  iS'ew  Testament  too 
common.' 

'  Take  care,  that  leaf  has  five  points,'  said  Norman. 

'  Shall  I  bring  you  up  "  Jane  Sparks  "  to  see  ?  Because  then 
you  can  judge,'  said  Ethel. 

'  There,  Norman,  is  that  right  ? — what  a  beauty  !  I  should  like 
to  look  over  them  by-aud-by,  dear  Ethel,  very  much.' 

Ethel  gazed  and  went  away,  more  put  out  than  was  usual  witli 
her.  '  When  Margaret  has  a  new  kind  of  fancy  work,'  she  thought, 
'  she  cares  for  nothing  else  !  as  if  my  poor  children  did  not  signify 
more  than  trumpery  leather  leaves  ! '  She  nest  met  Flora. 

'  O  Flora,  see  here,  what  a  famous  parcel  of  books  Mr.  Wilmot 
has  sent  us  to  choose  from.' 

'  All  those  !  '  said  Flora  turning  them  over  as  they  lay  heaped 
on  the  drawing-room  sofa ;  '  what  a  confusion  ! ' 

'  See,  such  a  parcel  of  reading  books.  I  want  to  know  what  you 
think  of  setting  them  up  with  "  Jane  Sparks,"  as  it  is  week-day 
teaching.' 

'  You  will  be  very  tired  of  hearing  those  spelt  over  for  ever; 
they  have  some  nicer  books  at  the  national  school.' 

'  What  is  the  name  of  them  V     Do  you  see  any  of  them  here  ? ' 

'  No,  I  don't  tiiink  I  do,  but  I  can't  wait  to  look  now.  I  must 
write  some  letters.  You  had  better  put  them  together  a  little.  If 
you  were  to  sort  them,  you  would  know  what  is  there.  Now,  what 
a  mess  they  arc  in,' 

Ethel  could  not  deny  it,  and  began  to  deal  them  out  in  piles 
looking  somewhat  more  fitting,  but  still  felt  neglected  and  aggrieved 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN,  14Y 

at  no  one  being  at  leisure  but  Harry,  who  vras  not  likely  to  be  of 
any  use  to  her. 

Presently  she  heard  the  study  door  open,  and  hoped  ;  but  though 
it  was  Richard  who  entered  the  room,  he  was  followed  by  Tom,  and 
each  held  various  books  that  boded  little  good  to  her.  Miss  Winter 
had,  much  to  her  own  satisfaction,  been  relieved  from  the  charge 
of  Tom,  whose  lessons  Richard  had  taken  upon  himself;  and  thus 
Ethel  had  heard  so  little  about  them  for  a  long  time  past,  that  even 
in  her  vexation  and  desire  to  have  them  over,  she  listened  with 
interest,  desirous  to  judge  what  sort  of  place  Tom  might  be  likely 
to  take  in  school 

She  did  not  perceive  that  this  made  Richard  nervous  and  uneasy. 
He  had  a  great  dislike  to  spectators  of  Latin  lessons ;  he  never  had 
forgotten  an  unlucky  occasion,  some  years  back,  when  his  father  was 
examining  him  in  the  Georgics,  and  he,  dull  by  nature,  and  duller 
by  confusion  and  timidity,  had  gone  on  rendering  word  for  word — • 
enim  for,  seges  a  crop,  lini  of  mud,  urit  burns,  campum  the  field, 
avence  a  crop  of  pipe,  urit  burns  it,  when  Norman  and  Ethel  had 
first  warned  him  of  the  beauty  of  his  translation  by  an  explosion  of 
lauo^hino-,  when  his  father  had  shut  the  book  with  a  bounce,  shaken 
his  head  in  utter  despair,  and  told  him  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of 
doing  anything — and  when  Margaret  had  cried  with  vexation. 
Since  that  time,  he  had  never  been  happy  when  anyone  was  in  ear- 
shot of  a  lesson  ;  but  to-day  he  had  no  escape — Harry  lay  on  the 
rug  reading,  and  Ethel  sat  forlorn  over  her  books  on  the  sofa. 
Tom,  however,  was  bright  enough,  declined  his  Greek  nouns  irre- 
proachably, and  construed  his  Latin  so  well,  that  Ethel  could  not 
help  putting  in  a  word  or  two  of  commendation,  and  auguring  the 
third  form.  '  Do  let  him  off  the  parsing,  Ritchie,'  said  she  coax- 
ingly — '  he  has  said  it  so  well,  and  I  want  you  so  much.' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  must  not,'  said  Richard;  who,  to  her  surprise, 
did  not  look  pleased  or  satisfied  with  the  prosperous  translation ; 
'  but  come,  Tom,  you  shan't  have  many  words,  if  you  really  know 
them.' 

Tom  twisted  and  looked  rather  cross,  but  when  asked  to  parse 
the  word  viribus,  answered  readily  and  correctly. 

'  Very  well,  only  two  more — affuit  ?  ' 

'  Third  person  singular,  praeter  perfect  tense  of  the  verb  affo, 
affis,  afui^  af^ere,^  gabbled  off  Tom  with  such  confidence,  that 
though  Ethel  gave  an  indignant  jump,  Richard  was  almost  startled 
into  letting  it  pass,  and  disbelieving  himself.  He  remonstrated  in 
a  somewhat  hesitating  voice.  '  Did  you  find  that  in  the  dictionary, 
said  he,  '  I  thought  affui  came  from  adsum.'' 

'  O  to  be  sure,  stupid  fool  of  a  word,  so  it  does ! '  said  Tom= 
hastily.     '  I  had  forgot — adsum,  ades,  affui,  adesse.'' 

Richard  said  no  more,  but  proposed  the  word  oppositus. 

'  Adjective.' 


118  THE   DAISY    CHAIN-. 

EtLel  was  surprised,  for  sbc  remembered  that  it  was,  in  tins 
passage,  mrt  of  a  passive  verb,  which  Tom  had  construed  correctly, 
'  it  -was  objected,'  and  she  had  thouglit  this  very  creditable  to  him, 
whereas  he  now  evidently  took  it  for  opposite  ;  however,  on  llichaj-d's 
reading  the  line,  he  corrected  himself  and  called  it  a  participle,  but 
did  not  commit  himself  further,  till  asked  for  its  derivation. 

'  From  oppositor.^ 

'  JIallo  !  '  cried  Harry,  who  hitherto  had  been  abstracted  in  his 
book,  but  now  turned,  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and,  at  the 
blunder,  shook  his  thick  yellow  locks,  and  showed  his  teeth  like  a 
young  lion. 

'  No,  now,  Tom,  pay  attention,'  said  Richard,  resignedly.  '  If 
you  found  out  its  meaning,  you  must  have  seen  its  derivation.' 

'  Oppositiis,^  said  Tom,  twisting  his  fingers,  and  gazing  first  at 
Ethel,  then  at  Harry,  in  hopes  of  being  prompted,  then  at  the  ceil- 
ing and  floor,  the  while  he  drawled  cut  the  word  with  a  whine 
'  why,  opposiius  from  op-posor.^ 

'  A  poser  !  aint  it  ?  '  said  llarry. 

'  Don't,  Harry,  you  distract  him,'  said  Richard.  J  Come,  loin. 
Bay  at  once  whether  you  know  it  or  not — it  is  of  no  use  to  invent.' 

'  From  op — '  and  a  mumble. 

'  What  ?     I  don't  hear— ojj— ' 

Tom  again  looked  for  help  to  Harry,  who  made  a  mischievous 
movement  of  his  lips,  as  if  prompting,  and,  deceived  by  it,  he  said 
boldly,  '  From  op-possum.'' 

'  That's  right !  let  us  hear  him  decline  it !  '  cried  Harry,  in  an 
ecstasy, '  Oppossum,  opottis,  oppossc,  or  oli-pottery  1 ' 

'  Harry,'  said  Richard,  in  a  gentle  reasonable  voice,  '  I  wish 
you  would  be  so  kind  as  not  to  stay,  if  you  cannot  help  distracting 
hiui.' 

And  Harry,  who  really  had  a  tolerable  share  of  forbearance  and 
con.sidoration,  actually  obeyed,  contenting  himself  with  tossing  his 
book  into  the  air  and  catching  it  again,  while  he  paused  at  the  door 
to  give  his  lastnnsolicited  assistance.  '  Decline  oppossum,  you  say. 
I'll  tell  you  how  :  O-j^ossum  rc-poscs  up  a  gum  tree.  0-pot-you-l 
will,  says  the  0-posse  of  Yankees,  come  out  to  keich  him.  Opos- 
sum poses  them  and  declines  in  0-poi-esse  by  any  manner  of  means 
of  o-potting-di-dodum,  was  quite  oppositum-opposUu,  in  fact,  quite 
contrairy.^ 

Richard,  with  the  gravity  of  a  victim,  heard  this  sally  of  school- 
boy wit,  which  threw  Ethel  back  on  the  sofa  in  fits  of  laughing, 
and  declaring  that  the  Opossum  declined,  not  that  he  was  declined  ; 
})ut,  in  the  midst  of  the  disturbance  thus  created,  Tom  stepped  up 
to  hor,  and  whispered,  '  Do  tell  mo,  Ethel.' 

'  Indeed  I  shan't,'  said  .she.  '  \'I\\y  don't  you  say  fairly  if  you 
don't  know  ?  ' 

He  was  obliged  to  confess  hi.s  ignorance,  and  Richard  made  him 


THE   DAISY    CIIAIX.  *  149 

conjugate  the  -s^liole  verb  opponor  from  beginning  to  end,  in  -whiclj 
he  wanted  a  good  deal  of  help. 

Ethel  could  not  help  saying,  '  How  did  you  find  out  the  mean 
iug  of  that  word,  Tom,  if  you  didn't  look  out  the  verb  ?  ' 

<  I — don't  know,'  drawled  Tom,  in  the  voice,  half  sullen,  half 
piteous,  which  he  always  assumed  when  out  of  sorts. 

'  It  is  very  odd,'  she  said,  decidedly;  but  Richard  took  no  notice, 
and  proceeded  to  the  other  lessons,  which  went  off  tolerably  well, 
except  the  arithmetic,  where  there  was  some  gi-eat  misunderstanding 
into  which  Ethel  did  not  enter  for  some  time.  When  she  did  at- 
tend, she  perceived  that  Tom  had  brought  a  right  answer,  Avithout 
understanding  the  working  of  the  sum,  and  that  Eichard  was  putting 
him  through  it.  She  beg^n  to  be  worked  into  a  state  of  dismay 
and  indignation  at  Tom's  behaviour,  and  Richard's  calm  indifference, 
which  m^de  her  almost  forget  Jane  Sparks,  and  long  to  be  alone 
with  Richard ;  but  all  the  world  kept  coming  into  the  room,  and 
•going  out,  and  she  could  not  say  what  was  in  her  mind  till  after 
dinner,  when,  seeing  Richard  go  up  into  Margaret's  room,  she  ran 
after  him,  and  entering  it,  surprised  3Iargaret,  by  not  beginning  on 
her  books,  but  saying  at  once,  '  Ritchie,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about  Tom.  I  am  sure  he  shuffled  about  those  lessons.' 
'  I  am  afraid  he  does,'  said  Richard,  much  concerned. 
'  What,  do  you  mean  that  it  is  often  so  ?  ' 

'  Much  too  often,'  said  Richard ;  '  but  I  have  never  been  able  to 
detect  him ;  he  is  very  sharp,  and  has  some  underhand  way  of 
preparing  his  lessons  that  I  cannot  make  out.' 

'  Did  you  know  it,  Margaret  ?  '  said  Ethel,  astonished  not  to  see 
her  sister  looked  shocked  as  well  as  sorry. 

'  Ye's,'  said  Margaret,  '  Ritchie  and  I  have  often  talked  it  over, 
and  tried  to  think  what  was  to  be  done.' 

'  Dear  me  !  why  don't  you  tell  papa  ?   It  is  such  a  terrible  thing  ! ' 
'  So  it  is,'  said  Margaret,  '  but  we  have  nothing  positive  or  tan- 
gible to  accuse  Tom  cf^  we  don't  know  what  he   does,  and  have 
never  caught  him  out.' 

'  I  am  sure  he  must  have  found  out  the  meaning  of  that  opiposi- 
tv.m  in  some  wrong  way — if  he  had  looked  it  out,  he  would  only 
have  found  opposite.  Nothing  but  oppcnor  could  have  shown  him 
the  rendering  which  he  made.' 

'  That's  like  what  I  have  said  almost  every  day,'  said  Richard, 
*  but  there  we  arc — I  can't  get  any  further. ' 

'  Perhaps  he  guesses  by  the  context,'  said  Margaret 
'  It  would  be  impossible  to  do  so  always,'  said  both  the  liatin 
scholars  at  once. 

'  Well,  I  can't  think  how  you  can  take  it  so  quietly,'  said  Ethel. 
I  would  have  told  papa  the  first  moment,  and  put  a  stop  to  it.     1 
save  a  great  mind  to  do  so  if  you  won't.' 

'  Ethel,  Ethel,  that  would  never  do  ! '  exclaimed  Margaret,  '  pray 


150  Tllli    DAISY    CHAIN. 

don't.     Papa  would  be  so  dreadfully  grieved  and  augry  with  poor 
Tom.' 

'  Well,  so  he  deserves,'  said  Ethel. 

'  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  see  papa  angry,'  said  Richard. 

'  Dear  nie,  Kichard  !  '  cried  Ethel,  who  thought  she  knew  pretty 
well  what  his  sharp  words  were.  '  I'm  sure  papa  never  was  angry 
with  nic,  Avithout  making  me  love  him  more,  and,  at  least,  iva7it  to 
be  better.' 

'  You  are  a  girl,'  said  Richard. 

'  You  arc  higher  spirited,  and  shake  off  things  faster,'  said 
Margaret. 

'  Why,  what  do  you  think  he  would  do  to  Tom  ? ' 

*  I  think  he  would  be  so  very  angry,  that  Tom,  who,  you  know, 
is  timid  and  meek,  would  be  dreadfully  frightened,'  said  Richard. 

'  That's  just  what  he  ought  to  be,  frightened  out  of  these  tricks.' 

'I  am  afraid  it  would  frighten  him  into  them  still  more,'  said 
Richard,  '  and  perhaps  give  him  such  a  dread  ;f  my  father  as 
would  prevent  him  from  ever  being  open  with  him  ' 

'  Besides,  it  would  make  papa  so  very  unhappy,'  added  Margaret. 
'  Of  course,  if  poor  dear  Tom  had  been  found  out  in  any  positive 
deceit,  we  ought  to  mention  it  at  once,  and  let  him  be  punished ; 
but  while  it  is  all  vague  suspicion,  and  of  what  papa  has  such  a 
horror  of,  it  would  only  grieve  him,  and  make  him  constantly 
anxious,  without,  perhaps,  doing  Tom  any  good.' 

'  I  think  all  that  is  expediency,'  said  Ethel,  in  her  bluff,  abrupt 
way. 

'  Besides,' said  Richard,  'we  have  nothing  positive  to  accuse 
him  of,  and  if  we  had,  it  would  be  of  no  use.  He  will  be  at  school 
in  three  weeks,  and  there  he  would  be  sure  to  shirk,  even  if  he  left 
it  off  here.    Everyone  does,  and  thinks  nothing  of  it.' 

'  Richard  ! '  cried  both  sisters,  shocked.     '  You  never  did  ?  ' 

'  No,  we  didn't,  but  most  others  do,  and  not  bad  fellows  either. 
It  is  not  the  way  of  boys  to  think  much  of  those  things.' 

'  It  is  mean — it  is  dishonourable — it  is  deceitful !  '  cried  Ethel 

'  I  know  it  is  very  wrong,  but  you'll  never  get  the  general  run 
of  boys  to  think  so,'  said  Richard. 

'  Then  Tom  ought  not  to  go  to  school  at  all  till  he  is  well  armed 
against  it,'  said  Etlicl. 

*  That  can't  be  helped,'  said  Richard.  '  He  will  get  clear  of  it 
iu  time,  when  he  knows  better.' 

'  I  will  talk  to  him,'  said  M-argaret, '  and  indeed,  I  tliiuk  it  would 
be  better  than  worrying  papa.' 

'  Well,'  said  Ethel,  '  of  course  I  shan't  tell,  because  it  is  not  my 
business,  but  I  think  papa  ought  to  know  everything  about  us,  and 
I  don't  like  your  keoj)iiig  anything  back.  It  is  being  almost  as  bad 
as  Tnin  himself.' 

With  which  words,  as  Flora  entered,  Ethel  marched  out  of  tha 


THE   DAISY    CHAIX.  151 

room  in  displeasure,  and  went  down,  resolved  to  settle  Jane  Spark3 
bj  herself. 

'  Ethel  is  out  of  sorts  to-day,'  said  Flora.  '  "What's  the 
matter  ? ' 

'  "Wo  have  had  a  discussion,'  said  Margaret.  '  She  has  been 
terribly  shocked  by  finding  out  what  we  have  often  thought  about 
poor  little  Tom,  and  she  thinks  we  ought  to  tell  papa.  Her  princi- 
ple is  quite  right,  but  I  doubt — ' 

'  I  know  exactly  how  Ethel  wculd  do  it ! '  cried  Flora ;  '  blurt  out 
all  on  a  sudden,  "  Papa,  Tom  cheats  at  his  lessons  !  "  then  there  would 
be  a  tremendous  uproar,  papa  would  scold  Tom  till  he  almost  fright- 
ened him  out  of  his  wits,  and  then  find  out  it  was  only  suspicion.' 

*  And  never  have  any  comfort  again,'  said  Margaret.  '  He 
would  always  dread  that  Tom  was  deceiving  him,  and  then  think 
it  was  all  for  want  of —  0  no,  it  will  never  do  to  speak  of  it,  un- 
less we  find  out  some  positive  piece  of  misbehaviour.' 

'  Certainly,'  said  Flora. 

'  And  it  would  do  Tom  no  good  to  make  him  afraid  of  papa,' 
said  Richard. 

'  Ethel's  rule  is  right  in  principle,'  said  Margaret,  the  nghtfully, 
'  that  papa  ought  to  know  all  without  reserve,  and  yet  it  will  hardly 
do  in  practice.  One  must  use  discretion,  and  not  tease  him  about 
every  little  thing.  He  takes  them  so  much  to  heart,  that  he  would 
be  almost  distracted ;  and  with  so  much  business  abroad,  I  think, 
at  home,  he  should  have  nothing  but  rest,  and,  as  far  as  we  can, 
freedom  from  care  and  worry.  Anything  wrong  about  the  children 
brings  on  the  grief  so  much,  that  I  cannot  bear  to  mention  it.' 

Hichard  and  Flora  agreed  with  her,  admiring  the  spirit  which 
made  her,  in  her  weakness  and  helplessness,  bear  the  whole  burthen 
of  family  cares  alone,  and  devote  herself  entirely  to  spare  her  fa- 
ther. He  was,  indeed,  her  first  object,  and  she  would  have  sacrificed 
anything  to  give  him  er,se  of  mind ;  but,  perhaps,  she  regarded  him 
more  as  a  charge  of  her  own,  than  as,  in  very  truth,  the  head  of 
the  family.  She  had  the  government  in  her  hands,  and  had  never 
been  used  to  see  him  exercise  it  much  in  detail  (she  did  not  know 
how  much  her  mother  had  referred  to  him  in  private),  and  had  suc- 
ceeded to  her  authority  at  a  time  when  his  health  and  spirits  w^re 
m  such  a  state  as  to  make  it  doubly  needful  to  spare  him.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  she  sometimes  carried  her  consideration  beyond  what 
was  strictly  right,  and  forgot  that  he  was  the  real  authority,  more  es- 
pecially as  his  impulsive  nature  sometimes  carried  him  away,  and 
his  sound  judgment  was  not  certain  to  come  into  play  at  the  first 
moment,  so  that  it  required  some  moral  courage  to  excite  displea- 
sure, so  easy  of  manifestation ;  and  of  such  courage  there  was,  per- 
haps, a  deficiency  in  her  character.  Nor  had  she  yet  detected  her 
»wn  satisfaction  in  being  the  first  with  everyone  in  the  family. 

Ethel  was  put  out,  as  Flora  had  discovered,  and  when  she  was 


152  TIIK    DAISY    CIIAIX. 

down  stairs  she  fouiul  it  out,  and  accused  herself  of  having  bcfn 
cross  to  Margaret,  and  unkind  to  Tom — of  vrishing  to  be  a  tell-tale. 
But  still,  though  displeased  \\'ith  herself,  she  was  dissatisfied  with 
3Iargaret;  it  might  be  right,  but  it  did  not  agree  with  her  notions. 
She  wanted  to  see  everyone  uncompromising,  as  girls  of  fifteen  gene- 
rally do ;  she  had  an  intense  disgust  and  loathing  of  underhand  ways, 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  Tom's  carrying  them  on,  and  going  to  a 
place  of  temptation  with  them  uncorrected ;  and  she  looked  up  to 
her  father  with  a  reverence  and  enthusiasm  of  one  like  minded. 

She  was  vexed  on  another  score.  Norman  came  home  from 
Abbotstoke  Grange  without  having  seen  Miss  Rivers,  but  with  a 
fresh  basket  of  choice  flowers,  rapturous  descriptions  of  Mr.  Rivers' 
prints,  and  a  present  of  an  engraving,  in  shading,  such  as  to  give 
the  efi"ect  of  a  cast,  of  a  very  fine  head  of  Alexander.  Nothing 
was  to  be  thought  of  but  a  frame  for  this — olive,  bay,  laurel,  every- 
thing appropriate  to  the  conqueror.  Margaret  and  Norman  were 
engrossed  in  the  subject,  and,  to  Ethel,  who  had  no  toleration  for 
fancy  work,  who  expected  everything  to  be  cither  useful  or  intellec- 
tual, this  seemed  very  frivolous.  Slie  heard  her  father  say  how 
glad  he  was  to  see  Norman  interested  and  occupied,  and  certainly, 
though  it  was  only  in  Icatlier  leaves,  it  was  better  than  drooping 
and  attending  to  nothing.  She  knew,  too,  that  Margaret  did  it  for  his 
sake,  but,  said  Ethel  to  herself,  '  It  was  very  odd  that  people  should 
find  amusement  in  such  things.  Margaret  always  had  a  turn  for 
them,  but  it  was  very  strange  in  Norman.' 

Then  came  the  pang  of  finding  out  that  this  was  aggravated  by 
the  neglect  of  herself;  she  called  it  all  selfishness,  and  felt  that  she 
had  had  an  uncomfortable^  unsatisfactory  day,  with  everything  going 
wrofiir. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


Gently  supported  liy  tlie  ready  aid 

Of  lovins  hands,  whoso  littlo  work  of  toil 
]I(T  erateful  iinidiL'ality  rcpjiid 
With  nil  tla^  b'nodiciinn  other  sniilo, 
She  turned  licr  falling  feet 
T"  the  softly  ciii^hioned  sent, 
Dispensing  liiiidly  greetings  all  Ibo  time.' 

It.  M.  MiLNKS. 


TiiKEE  great  events  signalized  the  month  of  January.  The  first 
was,  the  opening  of  the  school  at  Cocksmoor,  whither  a  cart  trans- 
ported half-a-dozen  forms,  various  books,  and  three  dozen  plum-buns, 
Margaret's  contribution,  in  order  tliat  the  school  might  begin  with 
6clat.  There  walked  Mr.  "Wilmot,  Richard,  and  Flora,  with  Mary, 
in  a  jumping  capering  state  of  delight,  and  Ethel,  not  knowing 
whetlier  she  rejoiced.     She  kept  apart  from  the  rest,  and  hardly 


THE  DAISY  cnAEsr.  153 

BRoko,  for  this  lor.g  probation  had  impressed  her  with  a  sen,to  of 
responsibility,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  a  great  work  to  which  she 
had  pet  her  hand — a  work  in  which  she  must  persevere,  and  in 
which  she  could  not  succeed  in  her  own  strength. 

She  took  hold  of  Flora's  hand,  and  squeezed  it  hard,  in  a  fit  of 
shyness,  when  they  came  upon  the  hamlet,  and  saw  the  children 
watching  for  them ;  and  when  they  reached  the  house,  she  would 
fain  have  shrank  into  nothing ;  there  was  a  swelling  of  heart  that 
seemed  to  overwhelm  and  stifle  her,  and  the  effect  of  which  was  to 
keep  her  standing  unhelpful,  when  the  others  were  busy  bringing 
in  the  benches  and  settling  the  room. 

It  was  a  tidy  room,  but  it  seemed  very  small  when  they  ranged 
the  benches,  and  opened  the  door  to  the  seven-and-twenty  children, 
and  the  four  or  five  women  who  stood  waiting.  Ethel  felt  some  dismay 
Vi'hcn  they  all  came  pushing  in,  without  order  or  civility,  and  would 
have  been  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  her  scholars  now  she  had 
got  them,  if  Richard  and  Flora  had  not  marshalled  them  to  the  benches. 

Hough  heads,  torn  garments,  staring  vacant  eyes,  and  mouths 
gaping  in  shy  rudeness — it  was  a  sight  to  disenchant  her  of  visions 
of  pleasure  in  the  work  she  had  set  herself.  It  was  well  that  she 
had  not  to  take  the  initiative. 

Mr.  Wilmot  said  a  few  simple  words  to  the  mothers  about  the 
wish  to  teach  their  children  what  was  right,  and  to  do  the  best  at 
present  practicable ;  and  then  told  the  children  that  he  hoped  they 
would  take  pains  to  be  good,  and  mind  what  they  were  taught.  Then 
he  desired  all  to  kneel  down;  he  said  the  Collect,  'Prevent  us,  0 
Lord,  in  all  our  doings — '  and  then  the  Lord's  prayer. 

Ethel  felt  as  if  she  could  bear  it  better,  and  was  more  up  to  the 
work  after  this.  Next,  the  children  were  desired  to  stand  round 
the  room,  and  Mr.  Wilmot  tried  "vvho  could  say  the  catechism — the 
two  biggest,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  had  not  an  idea  of  it,  and  the  boy 
looked  foolish,  and  grinned  at  being  asked  what  was  his  name.  One 
child  was  tolerably  perfect,  and  about  half-a-dozen  had  some  dim  no- 
tions. Thr>3  were  entirely  ignorant  of  the  Lord's  prayer,  and  many 
of  the  others  did  not  by  any  means  pronounce  the  words  of  it.  Jane 
and  Fanny  Taylor,  Rebekah  Watts,  and  Mrs.  Green's  little  boy,  were 
the  only  ones  who,  by  their  own  account,  used  morning  and  evening 
prayers,  though,  on  further  examination,  it  appeared  that  Polly  and 
Jenny  Hall,  and  some  otliers  were  accustomed  to  repeat  the  old 
rhyme  about  '  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John,'  and  Una  M'Carthy 
and  her  little  brother  Fergus  said  something  that  nobody  could  make 
out,  but  which  Mr.  Wilmot  thought  had  once  been  an  'Ave  Maria.' 

Some  few  of  the  children  could  read,  and  several  more  knew 
their  letters.  The  least  ignorant  were  selected  to  form  a  first-class, 
and  Mr.  Wilmot  promised  a  Prayer-book  to  the  first  who  should  be 
able  to  repeat  the  eateehisni  without  a  mistake,  and  a  Bible  to  the 
first  who  could  read  a  chapter  in  it. 
YoL.  L_7* 


154  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

Then  followed  a  setting  of  tasks,  varying  from  a  verse  of  a 
ppalui,  or  the  first  answer  in  the  catechism,  down  to  the  distinction 
between  A,  B,  and  C  ;  all  to  be  ready  by  next  Tuesday,  when,  weatli- 
er  pcrniitting,  a  second  lesson  was  to  be  given.  Afterwards,  a  piece 
of  advice  of  Margaret's  was  followed,  and  Flora  read  aloud  to  the 
assembly  the  story  of  'Margaret  Fletcher.'  To  some  this  seemed 
to  give  great  satisfaction,  especially  to  Una,  but  Ethel  was  surprised 
to  sec  that  many,  and  those  not  only  little  ones,  talked  and  yawned. 
They  had  no  power  of  attention  even  to  a  story,  and  the  stillness 
was  irksome  to  such  wild  colts.  It  was  plain  that  it  was  time  to 
leave  oft',  and  there  was  no  capacity  there  which  did  not  find  the 
conclusion  agreeable,  when  the  basket  was  opened,  and  Ethel  and 
Mary  distributed  the  buns,  with  instructions  to  say  '  thank  you.' 

The  next  Tuesday,  some  of  the  lessons  were  learnt,  Una's  per- 
fectly ;  the  big  ignorant  boy  came  no  more ;  and  some  of  the  chil- 
dren liad  learnt  to  behave  better,  while  others  behaved  worse; 
p]thel  began  to  know  what  she  was  about ;  Richard's  gentleness  was 
eminently  successful  with  the  little  girls,  impressing  good  manners 
on  them  in  a  marvellous  way ;  and  Mary's  importance  and  happi- 
ness with  alphabet  scholars,  some  bigger  than  herself,  were  edifying. 
Cocksmoor  was  fairly  launched. 

The  next  memorable  day  was  that  of  Margaret's  being  first  carried 
down  stairs.  She  had  been  too  willing  to  put  it  ofi"  as  long  as  she  could, 
dreading  to  witness  the  change  below  stairs,  and  feeling  too,  that  in 
entering  on  the  family  room,  without  power  of  leaving  it,  she  was 
losing  all  quiet  and  solitude,  as  well  as  giving  up  that  monopoly  of 
her  father  in  his  evenings,  which  had  been  her  great  privilege. 

However,  she  tried  to  talk  herself  into  liking  it ;  and  was  re- 
warded by  the  happy  commotion  it  caused,  though  Dr.  May  was  in 
a  state  of  excitement  and  nervousness  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  her 
on  the  stairs,  and  his  attempts  to  conceal  it  only  made  it  worse,  till 
Margaret  knew  she  should  be  nervous  herself,  and  wished  him  out 
of  sight  and  out  of  the  house  till  it  was  over,  for  without  him  she 
had  full  confidence  in  the  coolness  and  steadiness  of  Ricliard,  and 
by  him  it  was  safely  and  quietly  accomplished.  She  was  landed  on 
the  sofa,  Kichard  and  Flora  settling  her,  and  the  others  crowding 
round  and  exclaiming,  while  the  newness  of  the  scene  and  the  change 
gave  her  a  sense  of  confusion,  and  she  shut  her  eyes  to  recover  her 
thoughts,  but  opened  them  the  next  instant  at  her  father's  exclama- 
tion tliut  she  was  overcome,  smiled  to  reassure  him,  and  declared 
hersijlf  not  tired,  and  to  be  very  glad  to  be  among  them  again.  But 
the  bustle  was  oppressive,  and  her  cheerful  manner  was  an  efi"ort; 
tjhe  longed  to  see  them  all  gone,  and  Flora  found  it  out,  sent  the 
children  for  their  walk,  and  carried  oft'  Ethel  and  the  brothers. 

Dr.  May  was  called  out  of  the  room  at  the  same  time,  and  she 
was  left  alone.  She  gazed  round  her,  at  the  room  where,  four 
mouths  before,  she  had  seen  her  mother  with  the  babe  in  her  arms, 


THE   DAISY    CnAIN.  155 

the  children  clustered  round  her,  her  father  exulting  in  his  hen-aud- 
chicken  daisies,  herself  full  of  bright  undefined  hope,  radiant  with 
health  and  activity,  and  her  one  trouble  such  that  ehe  now  knew 
the  force  of  her  mother's  words,  that  it  only  proved  her  happiness. 
It  was  not  till  that  moment  that  Margaret  realized  the  change  ;  she 
found  her  eyes  filling  with  tears,  as  she  looked  round,  and  saw  the 
familiar  furniture  and  ornaments. 

They  were  instantly  checked  as  she  heard  her  father  returning, 
but  not  so  that  he  did  not  perceive  them,  and  exclaim  that  it  had 
been  too  much  for  her.  '  0  no — it  was  only  the  first  time,'  said 
Margaret,  losing  the  sense  of  the  juinful  vacancy  in  her  absorbing 
desire  not  to  distress  ber  father,  and  thinking  only  of  him  as  she 
watched  him  standing  for  some  minutes  leaning  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
with  his  hand  shading  his  forehead. 

She  began  to  speak  as  soon  as  sbe  thought  he  was  ready  to  have 
his  mind  turned  away  :  '  How  nicely  Kitchie  managed  !  He  carried 
me  so  comfortably  and  easy.  It  is  enough  to  spoil  me  to  be  so 
deftly  waited  on.' 

'  I'm  glad  of  it,'  said  Dr.  May  ;  '  I  am  sure  the  change  is  better 
for  you  ;''"but  he  came  and  looked  at  her  still  with  great  solicitude. 
'  Ritchie  can  take  excellent  care  of  me,'  she  continued,  most 
anxious  to  divert  his  thoughts.     '  You  see  it  will  do  very  well  in- 
deed for  you  to  take  Harry  to  school.' 

'  I  should  like  to  do  so.     I  should  like  to  see  bis  master,  and  to 
take  Norman  with  me,'  said  the  Doctor.     '  It  would  be  just  the 
thing  for  him  now — we  would  show  him  the  dockyard,  and  all  those 
matters,  and  such  a  thorougli  holiday  would  set  him  up  again.' 
'  He  is  very  much  better.' 

'  Much  better — he  is  recovering  spirits  and  tone  very  fast.  That 
leaf-work  of  youi-s  came  at  a  lucky  time.  I  like  to  see  him  looking 
out  for  a  curious  f?rn  in  the  hedge-rows — the  pursuit  has  quite 
brightened  him  up.' 

'■  And  he  does  it  so  th  vroughl}-,'  said  Margaret.  *  Ethel  fancies 
it  is  rather  frivolous  of  him,  I  believe ;  but  it  amuses  me  to  see  how 
men  give  dignity  to  what  women  make  trifling.  He  will  know 
everything  about  the  leaves,  hunts  up  my  botany  books,  and  has 
tauo-ht  me  a  hundred  times  more  of  the  construction  and  wonders  of 
them  than  I  ever  learnt. 

'  Aye,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  he  has  been  talking  a  good  deal  to  me 
about  vegetable  chemistry.  He  would  make  a  good  scientific 
botanist,  if  he  were  to  be  nothing  else.  I  should  be  glad  if  he 
sticks  to  it  as  a  pursuit — 'tis  pretty  work,  and  I  should  like  to  have 
gone  further  with  it,  if  I  had  ever  had  time  for  it.' 

'  I  dare  say  he  will,'  said  Margaret.  '  It  will  be  very  pleasant 
if  he  can  go  with  you.  How  he  would  enjoy  the  British  Museum, 
.f  there  was  time  for  him  to  see  it !  Have  you  said  anything  to  him 
yet?' 


156  TIIK   DAISY    CUATX. 

No  ;  I  waited  to  see  how  you  wci-e,  as  it  all  dopcnds  ou  that. 

*  I  think  it  depends  still  more  on  something  else  ;  v.'hethcr  Nor 
nian  is  as  lit  to  take  care  of  you  as  Ilichard  is.' 

*  That's  another  point.  There's  nothing  but  what  he  could 
manage  now,  but  I  don't  like  sa^-ing  anything  to  him.  I  know  Iig 
would  undertake  anything  I  wished,  without  a  word,  and  then,  per- 
haps, dwell  on  it  in  fimcy,  and  force  himself,  till  it  would  turn  to  a 
perfect  misery,  and  upset  his  nerves  again.  I'm  sorr}'  for  it.  I  meant 
him  to  have  followed  my  trade,  but  he'll  never  do  for  that.  How- 
ever, he  has  wits  enough  to  make  himself  what  he  pleases,  and  ] 
dare  say  he  will  keep  at  the  head  of  the  school  after  all.' 

'  How  very  good  he  has  been  in  refraining  from  restlessness  ! ' 
'  It's  beautiful ! '  said  Dr.  May,  with  strong  emotion.  '  Pool 
boy  !  I  trust  he'll  not  be  disappointed,  and  I  don't  think  he  will ; 
but  I've  promised  him  I  won't  bo  annoyed  if  he  should  lose  hi.s 
place — ^so  we  must  take  especial  care  not  to  show  any  anxiety. 
However,  for  this  matter,  Margaret,  I  wish  you  would  sound  him, 
and  see  whether  it  would  be  more  pleasure  or  pain.  Only  mind 
you  don't  let  him  think  that  I  shall  be  vexed,  if  he  feels  that  he 
can't  make  up  his  mind  ;  I  would  not  have  him  fancy  that  for  more 
than  I  can  tell.^ 

This  consultation  revived  the  spirits  of  both;  and  the  others 
returning,  found  Margaret  quite  disposed  for  companionship.  If 
to  her  the  evening  was  sad  and  strange,  like  a  visit  in  a  dream  to 
some  old  familiar  haunt,  finding  all  unnatural,  to  the  rest  it  was 
delightful.  The  room  was  no  longer  dreary,  now  that  there  was  a 
centre  for  care  and  attentions,  and  the  party  was  no  longer  broken 
up — the  sense  of  comfort,  cheerfulness,  and  home-gathering  had 
returned,  and  the  pleasant  evening  household  gossip  went  round  the 
table  almost  a*  it  used  to  do.  l)r.  May  resumed  his  old  habit  of 
skimming  a  club  book,  and  imparting  the  cream  to  the  listeners ; 
and  Flora  gave  them  some  music,  a  great  treat  to  jMargaret,  who 
had  long  only  heard  its  distant  sounds. 

3Iargaret  found  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  Norman,  and 
judged  favourably.  He  was  much  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  tho 
journey,  and  of  seeing  a  ship,  so  as  to  have  a  clearer  notion  of  the 
scene  where  Harry's  life  was  to  be  spent,  and  though  the  charge  of 
the  arm  was  a  drawback,  he  did  not  treat  it  as  insurmountable. 

A  few  days'  attendance  in  his  father's  room  gave  him  confidence 
in  taking  llichard's  place,  and,  accordingly,  tlie  third  important 
measure  was  decided  on,  namely,  that  he  and  his  father  should  ac- 
company Harry  to  the  naval  school,  and  be  absent  three  nights. 
Some  relations  would  be  glad  to  receive  them  in  London,  and  Alan 
Ernesclifl'e,  who  was  studj'ing  steam  navigation  at  Woolwich,  vol- 
unteered to  meet  them,  and  go  with  them  to  Portsmouth. 

It  was  a  wonderful  event;  Norman  and  Harry  hud  never  been 
beyond  Whitcford  in  their  lives,  and  none  of  the  young  ones  could 


THE   DAKY    CHAIN.  "  157 

recollect  their  papa's  ever  going  from  home  for  more  than  one  night. 
Dr.  May  laughed  at  Margaret  for  her  anxiety  and  excitement  on  the 
subject,  and  was  more  amused  at  overhearing  Richard's  precise 
directions  to  Norman  over  the  packing  up. 

'  Aye,  Ritchie,'  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  saw  his  portmanteau 
locked,  and  the  key  given  to  Norman,  '  you  may  well  look  grave 
upon  it.  You  won't  see  it  look  so  tidy  when  it  comes  back  again, 
and  I  b'dlieve  you  are  thinking  it  will  be  lucky  if  you  see  it  at  alh' 

There  was  a  very  affectionate  leave-taking  of  Harry,  who,  grow- 
ing rather  soft-hearted,  thought  it  needful  to  be  disdainful,  scolded 
IMary  and  Blanche  for  '  lugging  off  his  figure-head,'  and  assured 
them  they  made  as  much  work  about  it  as  if  he  was  going  to  sea  a< 
once.  Then,  to  put  an  end  to  any  more  embraces,  he  marched  off 
to  the  station  with  Tom,  and  nearly  caused  the  others  to  be  too 
late,  by  the  search  for  him  that  ensued. 

In  due  time.  Dr.  May  and  Norman  returned,  looking  the  better 
for  the  journey.  There  was,  first,  to  tell  of  Harry's  school  and  its 
master,  and  Alan  Ernescliffe's  introduction  of  him  to  a  nice-looking 
boy  of  his  own  age ;  then  they  were  eloquent  on  the  wonders  of  the 
dockyard,  the  Victory,  the  block  machinery.  And  London — while 
Dr.  May  went  to  transact  some  business,  Norman  had  been  with 
Alan  at  the  British  Museum,  and  though  he  had  intended  to  sec 
half  London  besides,  there  was  no  tearing  him  away  from  the  Elgin 
marbles  ;  and  nothing  would  serve  him,  but  bringing  Dr.  May  the 
nest  morning  to  visit  the  Ninevite  bulls.  Norman  further  said, 
that  whereas  papa  could  never  go  out  of  his  house  without  meeting 
people  who  had  something  to  say  to  him,  it  was  the  same  elsewhere. 
Six  acquaintances  lie  had  met  unexpectedly  in  London,  and  two  at 
Portsmouth, 

So  the  conversation  went  on  all  the  evening,  to  the  great  delight 
of  all.  It  was  more  about  things  than  people,  though  Flora 
inquired  after  Mr.  Ernescliffe,  and  was  told  ho  had  met  them 
at  the  station,  had  been  everywhere  with  them,  and  had  dined  at 
Mackenzies'  each  day.  '  How  was  he  looking  ?  '  Ethel  asked  ;  and 
was  told  pret:y  much  the  same  as  when  he  went  away;  and,  on  a 
further  query  from  Flora,  it  appeared  that  an  old  naval  friend  of 
his  fother's  had  hopes  of  a  ship,  and  had  promised  to  have  him  with 
him,  and  thereupon  warm  hojDCs  were  expressed  that  Harry  might 
have  a  berth  in  the  same. 

'  And  when  is  he  coming  here  again,  papa  ?  '  said  Ethel. 

'  Eh  !  oh  !  I  can't  telL     I  say,  isn't  it  high  time  to  ring  ?  ' 

When  they  went  up  at  eight,  everyone  felt  that  half  the  say 
had  not  been  said,  and  there  were  fresh  beginnings  on  the  stairs. 
Norm.an  triumphantly  gave  the  key  to  Richard,  and  then  called  tc 
Ethel ;  '  I  say,  won't  you  come  into  my  room  while  I  unpack  ? ' 

'  0  yes,  I  should  like  it  very  much.' 

Ethel  sat  on  the  bed  rolled  up  in  a  cloak,  while  Norman  undid 


lf>8  TIIK    DAISY   CHAIN. 

his  bag,  announcing  at  the  same  time:  '  Well,  Ethel,  papa  says  I  may 
get  to  my  Euripides  to-morrow,  if  I  please,  and  only  work  an  hour 
at  a  time  ! ' 

*  0  I  am  so  glad.     Then  le  thinks  you  quite  well  ? 
Yes,  I  am  quite  well.     I  hope  I've  done  with  nonsense.' 
And  how  did  j^ou  get  on  with  his  arm  ?  ' 

'  Very  well — he  was  so  patient,  and  told  me  how  to  nianafTe. 
You  heard  that  Sir  Matthew  said  it  had  got  much  better  in  these 
few  weeks.     0  here  it  is  !     There's  a  present  for  you,' 

'  0,  thank  you.     From  you,  or  from  papa  ? ' 

'  This  is  mine.  Papa  has  a  present  for  everyone  in  his  bag.  He 
said,  at  last,  that  a  man  with  eleven  children  hadn't  need  go  to  Lon- 
don very  often.' 

'  And  you  got  this  beautiful  Lyra  Lmocentium  for  me.  IIow 
very  kind  of  you,  Norman.  It  is  just  what  I  wished  for.  Such 
lovely  binding — and  those  embossed  edges  to  the  leaves.  Oh !  they 
make  a  pattern  as  they  open  !    I  never  saw  anything  like  it.' 

'  I  saw  such  a  one  on  Miss  Rivcrs's  table,  and  asked  Ernescliffu 
where  to  get  one  like  it.     See  here's  what  my  father  gave  me.' 

'Eishop  Ken's  Manual.  Thatis  in  readiness  for  the  Confir- 
mation.' 

'  Look  !  I  begged  him  to  put  my  name,  though  he  said  it  was  a 
pity  to  do  it  with  his  left  hand ;  T  didn't  like  to  wait,  so  I  asked 
him  at  least  to  write  N.  W.  May,  and  the  date.' 

'  And  he  has  added  Prov.  xxiii.  24,  25.  Let  me  look  it  out.' 
She  did  so,  and  instead  of  reading  it  aloud,  looked  at  Norman  full 
of  congratulation. 

'  Ilow  it  ought  to  make  one — '  and  there  Norman  broke  off  from 
the  fulness  of  his  heart. 

'  I'jn  glad  he  put  both  verses,'  said  Ethel,  presently.  '  How 
pleased  with  you  he  must  be  ! ' 

A  silence  while  brother  and  sister  both  gazed  intently  at  the 
crooked  characters,  till  at  last  Ethel,  with  a  long  breath,  resumed 
her  ordinary  tone,  and  said,  '  IIow  well  he  has  come  to  write  with 
his  left  hand  now.' 

*  Yes.  Did  you  know  tnat  he  wrote  himself  to  tell  Ernescliffe 
Sir  Matthew's  opinion  of  Margaret  ? ' 

'  No  :  did  he  ?  ' 

'  Do  you  know,  Ethel,  said  Norman,  as  he  knelt  on  the  floor, 
and  tumbled  miscellaneous  articles  out  of  his  bag,  *  it  is  my  belief 
that  Ernescliffe  is  in  love  with  her,  and  that  papa  thinks  so.' 

'  Dear  me  !  '  cried  Ethel,  starting  up.  '  That  is  famouH.  We 
should  always  have  JNIargaret  at  liome  when  he  goes  to  sea  ! ' 

'  ]iut  mind,  Ethel,  for  your  life  30U  nmst  not  say  one  word  to 
any  living  creature.' 

'  0  no,  I  promise  yc  u  I  won't,  Norman,  if  you'll  only  tell  me  how 
you  found  it  out." 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  159 

*  What  first  put  it  in  my  head  was  the  first  evening,  while  I  was 
undoing  the  portmanteau  ;  my  father  leant  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and 
sighed  and  muttered,  '  Poor  Ernescliff'e  !  I  wish  it  may  end  well.' 
I  thought  he  forgot  that  I  was  there,  so  I  would  not  seem  to  notice, 
but  I  soon  saw  it  was  ihat  he  meant.' 

'  How  ?  '  cried  Ethel,  eagerly. 

*  0,  I  don't  know — by  Alan's  way. 

'  Tell  me — I  want  to  know  what  people  do  when  they  are  in 
love.' 

<  Nothing  particular,'  said  Norman,  smiling. 
'  Did  you  hear  him  inquire  for  her  ?     How  did  he  look  ?  ' 
'  I  can't  tell.     That  was  when  he  met  us  at  the  station  before  I 
thought  of  it,  and  I  had  to  see  to  the  luggage.     But  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing,  Ethel ;  when  papa  was  talking  of  her  to  Mrs.  Mackenzie, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  all  his  attention  went  away  in  an  in- 
stant from  what  he  was  saying.     And  once,  when  Harry  said  some- 
thing to  me  about  her,  he  started,  and  looked  round  so  earnestly.' 
'  0  yes — that's  like  people  in  books.     And  did  he  colour  ?  ' 
'  No ;  I  don't  recollect  that  he  did,'  said  Norman ;  '  but  I  ob- 
served he  never  asked   directly  after  her  if  he  could  help  it,  but 
always  was  trying  to  lead,  in  some  roundabout  way,  to  hearing  what 
she  was  doing.' 

'  Did  he  call  her  Margaret  ?  ' 

'  I  watched;  but  to  me  he  always  said,  "  Your  sister,"  and  if  he 
had  to  speak  of  her  to  papa,  he  said,  "  Miss  May."  And  then  you 
should  have  seen  his  attention  to  papa.  I  could  hardly  get  a  chair  )e 
of  doing  anything  for  papa.' 

'  0  I  am  sure  of  it ! '  cried  Ethel,  clasping  her  hands.  '  But,  poor 
man,  how  unhappy  he  must  have  been  at  having  to  go  away  when 
she  was  so  ill ! ' 

'  Aye,  the  last  time  he  saw  her  was  when  he  carried  her  up-stairs.' 
'  0  dear  1  I  hope  he  will  soon  come  here  again  ! ' 
'  I  don't  suppose  he  will.     Papa  did  not  ask  him.' 
'  Dear  me,  Norman  !     Why  not  ?    Isn't  papa  very  fond  of  him  ? 
Why  shouldn't  he  come  ?  ' 

'  Don't  you  see,  Ethel,  that  would  be  of  no  use  while  poor  Mar- 
garet is  no  better.  If  he  gained  her  affections,  it  would  only  make 
\ier  unhappy.' 

'  0,  but  she  is  much  better.  She  can  raise  herself  up  now  with- 
out help,  and  sat  up  ever  so  long  this  morning,  without  leaning  back 
on  her  cushions.  She  is  getting  well — you  know  Sir  Matthew  said 
she  would.' 

'  Yes ;  but  I  suppose  papa  thinks  they  had  better  say  nothing 
till  she  is  quite  well.' 

'  And  when  she  is !     How  famous  it  will  be  ! ' 

'  Then  there's  another  thing ;  he  is  very  poor,  jo\x.  know.' 

*  I  am  sure  papa  does  not  care  about  people  being  rich.' 


100 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 


*  I  suppose  Alan  thinks  he  ought  not  to  nKury,  unless  he  eould 
make  his  wife  comfortable.' 

'  Look  here — it  would  be  all  very  easy:  she  should  stay  with  us 
and  be  comfortable  here,  and  he  go  to  sea,  and  get  lots  of  prize 
raoney.' 

'And  that's  what  you  call  domestic  felicity!'  said  Norman 
lauErhinff. 

'  He  might  have  her  when  he  was  at  home,'  said  Ethel. 

'No,  no;  that  would  never  do,' said  Norman.  'Do  you  think 
Erncscliflfe  is  a  man  that  would  marry  a  wife  for  her  father  to  main 
tain  her  ? ' 

'  ^^7^y>  papa  would  like  it  very  much.  He  is  not  a  morccnarj 
father  in  a  book.' 

'  ITey  !  what's  that  ? '  said  a  voice,  Ethel  little  expected.  '  Con- 
traband talk  at  contraband  times  ?     What's  this  ! ' 

'  Did  you  hear,  papa  ? '  said  Ethel,  looking  down. 

'  Only  your  last  words,  as  I  came  up  to  ask  Norman  what  he  had 
doi;c  with  my  pocket-book.  Mind,  I  ask  no  impertinent  questions; 
but,  if  you  have  no  objection,  1  should  like  to  know  what  gained 
me  the  honour  of  that  compliment.' 

'  Norman?'  said  Ethel,  interrogatively,  and  blushing  in  emula- 
tion of  her  brother,  who  was  crimson. 

'  I'll  find  it,'  said  he,  rushing  olF  with  a  sort  of  nod  and  si-n, 
that  conveyed  to  Ethel  that  there  was  no  help  for  it.  ° 

So,  with  much  confusion,  she  whispered  into  her  papa's  car  that 
Norman  had  been  telling  her  something  he  guessed  about  Mr. 
Ernescliffe. 

Iler  father  at  first  smiled,  a  pleased  amused  smile,  '  Ah  !  ha  ! 
BO  Master  June  has  his  eyes  and  ears  open,  has  he  ?  A  fine  bit  of 
gossip  to  regale  you  Avith  on  his  return ! ' 

'  He  told  me  to  say  not  one  word,'  said  Ethel. 

'  llight — mind  you  don't,'  said  Dr.  May,  and  Ethel  was  surprised 
to  see  how  sorrowful  his  face  became.  At  the  same  moment  Nor- 
man returned,  still  very  red,  and  said,  "  I've  put  out  the  pocket- 
book,  papa.  I  think  I  should  tell  you  I  repeated  what,  perhaps,  you 
did  not  mean  me  to  hear — you  talked  to  yourself  something  of  pity- 
ing ErnesclifTe.' 

The  Doctor  smiled  again  at  the  boy's  high-minded  openness, 
which  must  have  cost  an  effort  of  self-humiliation.  '  I  can't  say 
lUlIe  pitchers  have  long  ears,  to  a  May-pole  like  you,  Norman,'  said 
he ;  '  I  think  I  ought  rather  to  apologize  for  having  inadvertently 
tumbled  in  among  your  secrets ;  I  assure  you  I  did  not  come  to  spy 
you.' 

'  0,  no,  no,  no,  no/^  repeated  Ethel,  vehemently  '  Then  you 
didn't  mind  our  talking  about  it  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  not,  as  long  as  it  goes  no  further.  It  is  the  use  of 
listers,  to  tell  them  one's  private  sentiments.     Is  not  it.  Norman  ? 


THE  DAISY  cuAnr.  161 

'  And  do  jou  really  think  it  is  so,  papa  ?  '  Ethel  could  not  help 
whispering. 

I'm  afraid  it  is ! '  said  Dr.  May,  sighing ;  then,  as  he  caughi 
her  earnest  eyes ;  '  The  more  I  see  of  Alan,  the  finer  fellow  I  thinlj 
him,  and  the  more  sorry  I  am  for  him.  It  seems  presumptuous, 
almost  wrong,  to  think  of  the  matter  at  all  while  my  poor  Margaret 
is  in  this  state ;  and,  if  she  were  well,  there  are  other  difSculties 
which  would,  perhaps,  prevent  his  speaking,  or  lead  to  long  years  of 
waiting  and  wearing  out  hope.' 

'  Money  ! '  said  Ethel. 

'  Aye  !  Though  I  so  far  deserve  your  compliment.  Miss,  that  I 
should  be  foolish  enough,  if  she  were  but  well,  to  give  my  consent 
to-morrow,  because  I  could  not  help  it ;  yet  one  can't  live  forty-six 
years  in  this  world  without  seeing  it  is  wrong  to  marry  without  a 
reasonable  dependence — and  there  won't  be  much  among  eleven  of 
you.  It  makes  my  heart  ache  to  think  of  it,  come  what  may,  as  far 
as  I  can  see,  and  without  he?'  to  judge.  The  only  comfort  is,  that 
poor  Margaret  herself  knows  nothing  of  it,  and  is  at  peace  so  far. 
It  will  be  ordered  for  them,  anyhow.     Good  night,  my  dear.' 

Ethel  sought  her  room,  with  graver,  deeper  thoughts  of  life  than 
she  had  carried  up  stairs. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


Saw  ye  never  in  the  meadows, 

Where  j-our  little  feet  dul  pass. 
Down  below,  the  eweet  white  daisies 

Growing  in  the  long  green  grass? 
Saw  you  never  lilac  hlossoms, 

Or  acacia  white  and  red. 
Waving  brightly  in  the  sunshine, 

On  tbe  tall  trees  over  head  ? ' 

IlYiLNS  FOK  CUILDEEX,  C.  F.  A. 


3Iy  dear  child,  what  a  storm  you  have  had  !  how  wet  you  must  be  ! 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Larpent,  as  Meta  Elvers  came  bounding  up  the  broad 
staircase  at  Abbotstoke  Grange. 

'  Oh,  no;  I  am  quite  dry;  feel.' 

'  Are  you  sure  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Larpent,  drawing  her  darling  into  a 
luxurious  bed-room,  lighted  up  by  a  glowing  fire,  and  full  of  pretty 
things.  '  Here,  come  and  take  oif  your  wet  things,  my  dear,  and 
Bellairs  shall  bring  you  some  tea.' 

'  I'm  dry ;  I'm  warm,'  said  Meta,  tossing  off  her  plumy  hat,  as 
she  established  herself,  with  her  feet  on  the  fender.  '  B\xt  where  do 
you  think  I  have  been  ?  You  have  so  much  to  hear ;  but  first — 
three  guesses  where  we  were  in  the  rain  ?  ' 

'  In  the  Stoneborough  Cloisters,  that  you  wanted  to  see  ?  Mj 
dear,  you  did  not  keep  your  papa  in  the  cold  there  ? ' 


102  THE    BAls^Y    CHAIN. 

*  2So  no-  wc  never  got  there  at  all;  guess  agtiin.' 

«  At  Mr.  Edward  Wilmot's  ?  ' 

'No!' 

'Could  it  liave  beeu  at  Dr.  3Iay's?  Really,  theu,  you  musi 
toll  nie.' 

'  There  !  you  deserve  a  good  long  story  ;  beginning  at  the  begin- 
ning,' said  31  eta,  clapping  her  hands,  '  wasn't  it  curious  ?  as  we  wcro 
coming  up  tlie  last  hill,  we  met  some  girls  in  deep  mourning,  with  a 
lady,  who  looked  like  their  governess.  I  wondered  whether  they 
could  be  Dr.  May's  daughters,  and  so  it  turned  out  they  were. 
Presently  there  began  to  fall  little  square  lumps,  neither  hail,  nor 
snow,  nor  rain ;  it  grew  very  cold,  and  rain  came  on.  It  would  have 
hccn  great  fun,  if  I  had  not  been  afraid  papa  would  catch  cold,  and 
he  said  we  would  canter  on  to  the  inn.  But  luckily,  there  was  Dr. 
May  walking  up  the  street,  and  he  begged  us  to  come  into  his  house. 
I  was  so  glad !  We  were  tolerably  wet,  and  Dr.  i\Iay  said  some- 
thing about  hoping  the  girls  were  at  home ;  well,  when  he  opened 
the  drawdng-room  door,  there  was  the  poor  daughter  lying  on  the 
sofa.' 

'  Poor  girl !  tell  me  of  her.' 

'  Oh  !  you  must  go  and  see  her;  you  won't  look  at  her  without 
losing  your  heart.  Papa  liked  her  so  much — see  if  he  does  not 
talk  of  her  all  the  eveiiing.  She  looks  the  picture  of  goodness  and 
sweetness.  Only  think  of  her  having  some  of  the  Maidenhair  and 
Cape  Jessamine  still  in  water,  that  we  sent  her  so  long  ago.  She 
shall  have  some  flowers  every  three  days.  Well,  Dr.  May  said, 
"  There  is  one  at  least,  that  is  sure  to  be  at  home."  She  felt  my 
habit,  and  said  I  must  go  and  change  it,  and  she  called  to  a  little 
thing  of  si.x,  telling  her  to  show  me  the  way  to  Flora.  She  smiled, 
and  said  she  wi.shed  she  could  go  herself,  but  Flora  would  take  care 
of  me.  Little  Blanche  came  and  took  hold  of  my  hand,  chattering 
away,  up  we  went,  up  two  staircases,  and  at  the  top  of  the  last  stood 
a  girl  about  seventeen,  so  pretty !  such  deep  blue  eyes,  and  such  a 
complexion  !  "That's  Flora,"  little  Blanche  said;  "Flora,  this  is 
Miss  llivers,  and  she's  wet,  and  Margaret  says  you  are  to  take  care 
of  her."  ' 

'  So  that  was  your  introduction  ?  ' 

'Yes;  we  got  acquainted  in  a  minute.  She  took  me  into  her 
room — such  a  room !  I  believe  Bellairs  would  be  angry  if  she  had 
such  an  one ;  all  up  in  the  roof,  no  fire,  no  carpet,  except  little 
strips  by  the  beds;  there  were  three  beds.  Flora  u.sed  to  sleep 
tliere  till  Miss  May  was  ill,  and  now  she  dresses  there.  Yet  I  am 
Bure  they  are  as  much  ladies  as  I  am  ' 

'  You  are  an  only  daughter,  my  dear,  and  a  petted  one,'  said 
Mrs.  Larpeut,  smiling.  '  There  are  too  many  of  them  to  make 
much  of,  as  wc  do  of  our  IMeta.' 

'  I  suppose  so ;  but  I  did  not  know  gentlewomen  lived  in  such  a 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN".  163 

■way,'  said  Meta.  '  There  -were  nice  things  about,  a  beautiful  inlaid 
work-box  of  Flora's,  and  a  rosewood  desk,  and  plenty  of  books, 
and  a  Greek  book  and  dictionary  -were  spread  open.  I  asked  Flora 
if  they  were  hers,  and  she  laughed  and  said  no ;  and  that  Ethel 
would  be  much  discomposed  that  I  had  seen  them.  Ethel  keeps  up 
with  her  brother  Norman — only  fancy  !  and  he  at  the  head  of  the 
Bchool.     How  clever  she  must  be  ! ' 

'  But,  my  dear,  were  you  standing  in  your  wet  things  all  this  time  ! 

'  No ;  I  was  trying  on  their  frocks,  but  they  trailed  on  the  ground 
upon  me,  so  she  asked  if  I  would  come  and  sit  by  the  nursery  fire  till 
my  habit  was  dry;  and  there  was  the  dear  little  good-humoured 
baby,  so  fair  and  pretty.  She  is  not  a  bit  shy,  will  go  to  anybody, 
but,  they  say,  she  likes  no  one  so  well  as  her  brother  Norman.' 

'  So  you  had  a  regular  treat  of  baby  nursing.' 

'  That  I  had  ;  I  could  not  part  with  her,  the  darling.  Flora 
thought  we  might  take  her  down,  and  I  liked  playing  with  her  in 
the  drawing-room  and  talking  to  Miss  May,  till  the  fly  came  to  take 
us  home.  I  wanted  to  have  seen  Ethel ;  but,  only  think,  papa  has 
asked  Dr.  May  to  bring  Flora  some  day ;  how  I  hope  he  will ! ' 

Little  Meta  having  told  her  story,  and  received  plenty  of  sympathy, 
proceeded  to  dress,  and,  while  her  maid  braided  her  hair,  a  musing 
lit  fell  upon  her.  '  I  have  seen  something  of  life  to-day,'  thought 
she.  '  I  had  thought  of  the  great  difference  between  us  and  the 
poor,  but  I  did  not  know  ladies  lived  in  such  different  ways.  I 
should  be  very  miserable  without  Bellairs,  or  without  a  fire  in  my 
room.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  I  had  to  live  in  that  cold, 
shabby  den,  and  do  my  own  hair,  yet  they  think  nothing  of  it,  and 
they  arc  cultivated  and  lady-like  !  Is  it  all  fancy,  and  being  brought 
up  to  it  ?  I  wonder  if  it  is  right  ?  Yet  dear  papa  likes  me  to  have 
these  things,  and  can  afford  them.  I  never  knew  I  was  luxurious 
before,  and  yet  I  think  I  must  be !  One  thing  I  do  wish,  and  that 
is,  that  I  was  of  as  much  use  as  those  girls.  I  ought  to  be.  I 
am  a  motherless  girl  like  them,  and  I  ought  to  be  everything  tu 
papa,  just  as  Miss  May  is,  even  lying  on  the  sofa  there,  and  only 
two  years  older  than  I  am.  I  don't  think  I  am  of  any  use  at  all; 
he  is  fond  of  me,  of  course,  dear  papa ;  and  if  I  died,  I  don't  know 
what  would  become  of  him,  but  that's  only  because  I  am  his 
daughter — he  has  only  George  besides  to  care  for.  But,  really  and 
truly,  he  would  get  on  as  well  without  me.  I  never  do  anything  for 
him,  but  now  and  then  playing  to  him  in  the  evening,  and  that  not 
always,  I  am  afraid,  when  I  want  to  be  about  anything  else.  He  is 
always  petting  me,  and  giving  me  all  I  want,  but  I  never  do  anything 
but  my  lessons,  and  going  to  the  school,  and  the  poor  people,  and 
that  is  all  pleasure.  I  have  so  much  that  I  never  miss  what  I  give 
f.way.  I  wonder  whether  it  is  all  right.  Leonora  and  Agatha  have 
not  so  much  money  to  do  as  they  please  with — they  are  not  sc 
idolized.     George  said,  when  he  was  angry,  that  papa  idolizes  me 


ifi-i  THE    DAISr    CHAIX. 

but  tlvcy  have  all  (hcsc  comforts  and  luxuries,  and  never  tliiuk  of 
anything  but  doing  Avhat  they  like.  They  never  made  luc  consider 
us  these  Mays  do.  I  should  like  to  know  them  more.  I  do  so 
much  want  a  friend  of  my  own  age.  It  is  the  only  want  I  have. 
I  have  tried  to  make  a  friend  of  Leonora,  but  I  cannot;  she  never 
cares  for  what  I  do.  If  she  saw  these  Mays  she  would  look  down 
on  them.  Dear  Mr.-^.  Larpent  is  better  than  anyone,  but  then  slic 
is  so  much  older.  Flora  May  shall  be  my  friend.  I'll  make  her 
call  me  Mcta  as  soon  as  she  comes.  When  will  it  be  ?  The  day 
after  to-morrow  ? 

But  little  Mcta  watched  in  vain.  Dr.  May  always  came  with 
cither  Ilichard  or  the  groom,  to  drive  him,  and  if  Mcta  met  him 
and  lioped  he  would  bring  Flora  next  time,  he  only  answered  that 
Flora  would  like  it  very  much,  and  he  hoped  soon  to  do  so. 

The  truth  was,  it  was  no  such  every  day  matter  as  Mcta  imagined. 
The  larger  carriage  had  been  broken,  and  the  only  vehicle  held  only 
the  doctor — his  charioteer — and  iu  a  very  minute  appendage  behind, 
a  small  sou  of  the  gardener,  to  open  the  gates,  and  hold  tlic  horse. 

Tlie  proposal  had  been  one  of  those  general  invitations  to  bo 
fulfilled  at  any  time,  and  therefore  easily  set  aside  ;  and  Dr.  May, 
tliough  continually  thinking  he  should  like  to  take  his  girls  to 
Abbotstoke,  never  saw  the  definite  time  for  so  doing;  and  Flora 
herself,  though  charmed  with  Miss  Rivers,  and  delighted  with  the 
pi'ospcct  of  visiting  her.  only  viewed  it  as  a  distant  prospect. 

Tliere  was  plenty  of  immediate  interest  to  occupy  them  at  home, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  increasing  employment  that  Cocksmoor  gave 
to  thoughts,  legs,  and  needles.  There  was  the  commencement  of 
the  half-year,  when  Tom's  school-boy  life  was  to  begin,  and  when  it 
would  be  proved  whether  Norman  were  able  to  retain  his  elevation. 

Margaret  had  much  anxiety  respecting  the  little  boy  about  to  do 
sent  into  a  scene  of  iemptation.  llcr  great  confidence  was  iu 
Ilichard,  who  told  her  that  boj^s  did  many  more  wrong  things  than 
were  known  at  home,  and  yd  turned  out  very  W3ll,  and  tliat  Tom 
would  be  sure  to  right  himself  in  the  end.  Ilichard  had  been 
blameless  in  his  whole  school  course,  but  though  never  partaking  of 
the  other  boys'  evil  practices,  he  could  not  form  an  independent 
estimate  of  character,  and  his  tone  had  been  a  little  hurt,  by  sharing 
the  school  public  opinion  of  morality.  lie  thought  Stoneborough, 
and  its  temptations,  inevitable,  and  only  wished  to  make  the  best  of 
it.  Margaret  was  afraid  to  harass  her  fatlier,  by  laying  the  caso 
before  him.  All  her  brothers  had  gone  safely  through  tlie  school, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  possible  that,  if  her  father 
knew  the  bias  of  Tom's  disposition,  he  might  choose,  for  the  i»resent, 
at  least,  some  other  mode  of  education. 

Slio  talked  earnestly  to  Tom,  and  he  listened  impatiently.  Thero 
is  an  age  when  boys  rebel  against  female  rule,  and  are  not  yet 
Boftened  by  the  chivalry  of  manhood,  and  Tom  was  at  this  time  of 


rSE   DAISY   CnAEf.  165 

life.  He  did  not  like  to  be  lectured  by  a  sister,  secretly  disputed 
her  right,  and,  proud  of  becoming  a  schoolboy,  had  not  the  generous 
deference  for  her  -weakness  felt  by  his  elder  brothers ;  he  Tras  all 
the  time  peeling  a  stick,  as  if  to  show  that  he  was  not  attending, 
and  he  raised  up  his  shoulder  pettishly  whenever  she  came  to  a 
mention  of  the  religious  duty  of  sincerity.  She  did  not  long  con- 
tinue her  advice,  and,  much  disappointed  and  concerned,  tried  to 
console  herself  with  hoping  that  he  might  have  heeded  more  than 
he  seemed  to  do. 

He  was  placed  tolerably  high  in  the  school,  and  Norman,  who 
had  the  first  choice  of  fags,  took  him  instead  of  Hector  Ernescliffe, 
who  had  just  passed  beyond  the  part  of  the  school  liable  to  be 
fagged.  He  said  he  liked  school,  looked  bright  when  he  came 
home  in  the  evenings,  and  the  sisters  hoped  all  was  right. 

Everyone  was  just  now  anxiously  watching  Norman,  especially 
his  father,  who  strove  in  vain  to  keep  back  all  manifestation  of  his 
earnest  desire  to  see  him  retain  his  post.  Resolutely  did  the  Doc- 
tor refrain  from  asking  any  questions  when  the  boys  came  in,  but  he 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  studying  the  face,  to  see  whether  it 
bore  marks  of  mental  fatigue,  and  from  following  him  about  the 
room,  to  discover  whether  he  found  it  necessary,  as  he  had  done 
last  autumn,  to  spend  the  evening  in  study.  It  was  no  small 
jDleasure  to  see  him  come  in  with  his  hand  full  of  horse-chestnut 
and  hazel-buds,  and  proceed  to  fetch  the  microscope  and  botany 
books,  throwing  himself  eagerly  into  the  study  of  the  wonders  of 
their  infant  forms,  searching  deeply  into  them  with  Margaret,  and 
talking  them  over  with  his  father,  who  was  very  glad  to  promote 
the  pursuit — one  in  which  he  had  always  taken  great  interest. 

Another  night  Dr.  May  was  for  a  moment  disturbed  by  seeing 
the  a'Aool-books  put  out,  but  Norman  had  only  some  notes  to  com- 
pare, and  while  he  did  so,  he  was  remarking  on  Flora's  music,  and 
joining  in  the  conversation  so  freely  as  to  prove  it  was  no  labour  to 
him.  In  truth,  he  was  evidently  quite  recovered,  entirely  himself 
again,  except  that  he  was  less  boyish.  He  had  been  very  lively 
and  full  of  merry  nonsense ;  but  his  ardour  for  play  had  gone  c2 
with  his  high  spirits,  and  there  was  a  manliness  of  manner,  and 
tone  of  mind,  that  made  him  appear  above  his  real  age. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  volunteered  to  tell  his  father  that 
all  was  right.  '  I  am  not  afraid  of  not  keeping  my  place,'  he  said  ; 
'  you  were  quite  right,  papa.  I  am  more  up  to  my  work  than  I  was 
ever  before,  and  it  comes  to  me  quite  fresh  and  pleasant.  I  don't 
promise  to  get  the  Randall  scholarship,  if  Forder  and  Cheviot  stay 
on.  but  I  can  quite  keep  up  to  the  mark  in  school  work.' 

'  That's  right,'  said  Dr.  May,  much  rejoiced.  '  Are  you  surt 
f  ou  do  it  with  ease,  and  without  its  haunting  you  at  night  ?  ' 

*  Qh,  yes  ;  quite  sure.     I  can't  think  what  has  made  Dr.  Hoxton 


lOG  THE   DAISY    CIIMN. 

Bet  US  on  in  sucli  easy  things  this  time.     It  is  very  lucky   for  me, 
for  one  gets  so  much  loss  time  to  oneself  as  dux.' 

*  AVhat !  with  keeping  order  ? ' 

'  Ay*,'  said  Norman.  '  I  fancy  they  tliinlc  they  may  take  libertioa 
because  I  am  new  and  young.  I  must  have  my  eye  in  all  corners 
of  the  hall  at  once,  and  do  my  work  by  snatche.s,  as  I  can.' 

'  Can  you  make  them  attend  to  you  ?  ' 

*  AVhy,  yes,  pretty  well,  when  it  comes  to  the  point — "  will  you, 
or  will  you  not."  Cheviot  is  a  great  help,  too,  and  has  all  tho 
wei^'lit  of  being  the  eldest  fellow  among  us.' 

'  But  still  you  find  it  harder  work  than  learning  ?  You  had 
rather  have  to  master  the  dead  language  than  the  live  tongues? ' 

*  A  pretty  deal,'  said  Norman ;  then  added,  '  one  knows  what  to 
be  at  with  the  dead,  better  than  with  the  living ;  they  don't  make 
parties  against  one.  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  It  was  very  hard  on 
some  of  tliose  great  fellows  to  have  me  set  before  them,  but  I  do 
not  think  it  is  fair  to  visit  it  b}^  putting  up  the  little  boys  to  all 
sorts  of  mischief.' 

'  Shameful ! '  said  the  doctor,  warmly;  '  but  never  mind,  Nor- 
man, keep  your  temper,  and  do  your  own  duty,  and  you  are  man 
enough  to  jmt  down  such  petty  spite.' 

'  I  hope  I  shall  manage  rightly,'  said  Norman  ;  '  but  I  shall  bo 
giad  if  I  can  get  the  Kandall  and  get  away  to  Oxford ;  school  is 
not  what  it  used  to  be,  and  if  you  don't  think  me  too  young — ' 

'  No,  I  don't;  certainly  not.  Trouble  has  made  a  man  of  you, 
Norman,  and  you  are  fitter  to  be  with  men  than  boys.  In  the 
meantime,  if  you  can  be  patient  with  these  fellows,  you'll  be  of 
great  use  where  you  are.  If  there  had  been  anyone  like  you  at  the 
head  of  the  school  in  my  time,  it  would  have  kept  mc  out  of  no  end 
of  bcrapes.  How  does  Tom  get  on  ?  he  is  not  likely  to  fall  into 
this  set  I  trust.' 

'  I  am  not  sure,'  said  Norman ;  '  he  does  pretty  well  on  the  whole. 
Some  of  them  began  by  bullying  him,  and  that  made  him  cling  to 
Cheviot  and  ErnesrAitic,  and  the  better  party;  but  lately  I  have 
tliought  Anderson,  junior,  rather  making  up  to  him,  and  I  don't 
know  whether  they  don't  think  that  tempting  him  over  to  tliem, 
would  be  the  surest  way  of  vexing  me.  I  have  an  eye  over  him, 
and  I  hope  he  may  get  settled  into  the  steadier  sort  before  next  half.' 

After  a  silence,  Norman  said ;  '  Papa,  there  is  a  thing  I  can't 
settle  in  my  own  mind.  Suppose  there  had  been  wrong  things 
done  when  older  boys,  and  excellent  ones  too,  were  at  the  head  of 
the  school,  yet  they  never  interfered,  do  you  think  I  ought  to  let  it 
go  on  V ' 

'  Certainly  not,  or  why  is  power  given  to  you  ? ' 

*  So  I  tliought,'  said  Norman;  'I  can't  see  it  otherwise.  I 
wish  I  could,  for  it  will  be  horrid  to  set  about  it,  and  they'll  think 
it  a  reorular  shame  in  mc  to  meddle. — 0 !  I  know  what  I  came  into 


THE   D^VIST    CHAIN,  167 

the  study  for  ;  I  waDt  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  lend  me  your  pocket 
Gi-reek  Testament.     I  gave  Harry  my  little  one.' 

'  You  are  very  welcome.     What  do  you  want  it  for  ? ' 

Norman  coloured.  '  I  met  with  a  sermon  the  other  day  that 
recommended  reading  a  bit  of  it  every  day,  and  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  try,  now  the  Confirmation  is  coming.  One  can  always  have 
some  quiet  by  getting  away  into  the  cloister.' 

'  Bless  you,  my  boy  !  while  you  go  on  in  this  way,  I  have  not 
much  fear  but  that  you'll  know  how  to  manage.' 

Norman's  rapid  progress  affected  another  of  the  household  in  an 
unexpected  way. 

'  Margaret,  my  dear,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,'  said  Miss  Winter, 
re-appearing  when  Margaret  thought  everyone  was  gone  out  walk- 
ing. She  would  have  said,  '  I  am  very  sorry  for  it ' — so  ominous 
was  the  commencement^and  her  expectations  were  fulfilled  when 
Miss  Winter  had  solemnly  seated  herself,  and  taken  out  her  netting. 
'  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  dear  Ethel,'  said  the  governess  ;  '  you 
know  how  unwilling  I  always  am  to  make  any  comjDlaint,  but  I  cannot 
be  satisfied  with  her  present  way  of  going  on.' 

'  Indeed,'  said  Margaret.  '  I  am  much  grieved  to  hear  this.  I 
thought  she  had  been  taking  great  pains  to  improve.' 

'  So  she  was  at  one  time.     I  would  not  by  any  means  wish  to 
deny  it,  and  it  is  not  of  her  learning  that  I  speak,  but  of  a  hurried, 
careless  way  of  doing  everything,  and  an  irritability  at  being  in 
terfered  with.' 

Margaret  knew  how  Miss  Winter  often  tried  Ethel's  temper, 
and  was  inclined  to  take  her  sister's  part.  '  Ethel's  time  is  so  fully 
occupied,'  she  said. 

'  That  is  the  very  thing  that  I  was  going  to  observe,  my  dear. 
Her  time  is  too  much  occupied,  and  my  conviction  is,  that  it  is 
hurtful  to  a  girl  of  her  age.' 

This  was  a  new  idea  to  Margaret,  who  was  silent,  longing  to 
prove  Miss  Winter  wrong,  and  not  have  to  see  poor  Ethel  pained 
by  having  to  relinquish  any  of  her  cherished  pursuits. 

'  You  see  there  is  that  Cocksmoor,'  said  Miss  Winter.  *  You 
do  not  know  how  far  off'  it  is,  my  dear ;  much  too  great  a  distance 
for  a  young  girl  to  be  walking  continually  in  all  weathers.' 

'  That's  a  question  for  papa,'  thought  Margaret. 

*  Besides,'  continued  Miss  Winter, '  those  children  engross  almost 
all  her  time  and  thoughts.  She  is  working  for  them,  preparing  les- 
sons, running  after  them  continually.  It  takes  off  her  whole  mind 
from  her  proper  occupations,  unsettles  her,  and  I  do  think  it  ia 
Deyond  what  befits  a  young  lady  of  her  age.' 

Margaret  was  silent. 

'  In  addition,'  said  Miss  Winter,  '  she  is  at  every  spare  moment 
busy  with  Latin  and  Greek,  and  I  cannot  think  that  to  keep  pace 
with  a  boy  of  Norman's  age  and  ability  can  be  desirable  for  her.' 


168  THE   DAISY    ClIALJf. 

'  It  is  a  great  deal,'  said  Margaret,  '  but — ' 

'  I  am  convinced  that  she  docs  more  than  is  right,'  continued 
Miss  Winter.  '  She  may  not  feel  any  ill  effects  at  present,  but  you 
may  depend  upon  it,  it  will  tell  on  her  by-and-by.  Besides,  she 
does  not  attend  to  anything  properly.  At  one  time  she  was  improv- 
ing' in  neatness  and  orderly  habits.  Now,  you  surely  must  have 
Bcen  how  much  less  tidy  her  hair  and  dress  have  been.' 

'  I  have  thought  her  hair  looking  rather  rough,'  said  Margaret, 
disconsolately. 

'  No  wonder,'  said  Miss  "Winter,  '  for  Flora  and  Mary  tell  me  she 
hardly  spends  five  minutes  over  it  in  the  morning,  and  with  a  book 
before  her  the  whole  time.  If  I  send  her  up  to  make  it  fit  to  be  seen, 
I  meet  with  looks  of  annoyance.  She  leaves  her  books  in  all  parts  of 
the  school-room  for  Mary  to  put  away,  and  her  table  drawer  is  one 
mass  of  confusion.  Iler  lessons  she  does  well  enough,  I  own,  though 
what  I  should  call  much  too  fast;  but  have  you  looked  at  her  work 
lately  ?  ' 

'  She  docs  not  work  very  well,'  said  Margaret,  who  was  at  that 
moment,  though  Miss  Winter  did  not  know  it,  re-gathering  a  poor 
child's  frock  that  Ethel  had  galloped  through  with  more  haste  than 
good  speed. 

'  She  works  a  great  deal  worse  than  little  Blanche,'  said  Miss  Win- 
ter, '  and  though  it  may  not  be  the  fashion  to  say  so  in  these  days,  I 
consider  good  needlework  far  more  important  than  accomplishments. 
Well,  then,  Margaret,  I  should  wish  you  only  just  to  look  at  her 
writing.' 

And  Miss  Winter  opened  a  French  exercise  book,  certainly  con- 
taining anything  but  elegant  specimens  of  penmanship.  Ethel's 
best  writing  was  an  upright,  disjointed,  niggle,  looking  more  like 
Greek  than  anything  else,  except  where  here  and  tliere  it  made 
insane  cfi"orts  to  become  running-hand,  and  thereby  lost  its  sole  pre- 
vious good  quality  of  legibility,  while  the  lines  waved  about  the 
sheet  in  almost  any  direction  but  the  horizontal.  The  necessity 
she  believed  herself  under  of  doing  what  Ilarry  called  writing  with 
the  end  of  her  nose,  and  her  always  holding  her  pen  with  her  fin- 
gers almost  in  the  ink,  added  considerably  to  the  difliculty  of  the 
performance.  This  being  at  her  best,  the  worst  may  bo  supposed 
to  be  indescribable,  when  dashed  off  in  a  violent  hurry,  and  consid- 
erably garnished  with  blots.  Margaret  thought  she  had  seen  the 
worst,  and  was  sighing  at  being  able  to  say  nothing  fur  it,  when 
Miss  Winter  confounded  her  l)y  turning  a  leaf,  and  showing  it  was 
possible  to  make  a  still  wilder  combination  of  scramble,  niggle, 
scratch,  and  crookedne.'^s — and  this  was  supposed  to  be  an  amended 
edition  !  Miss  Winter  explained  that  Ethel  had,  in  an  extremely 
short  time,  performed  an  cxei-ci.se  iu  which  no  fault  could  be 
detected  except  the  writing,  which  was  pronounced  to  be  too  atro 
f'ious  to  be  shown  up  to  M.  Ballompre.     On  being  desired  to  write 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN".  169 

it  over  again,  she  had  obeyed  with  a  very  bad  grace,  and  some  mur- 
murs anout  Cocksmoor,  and  produced  the  second  specimen,  which, 
in  addition  to  other  defects,  had  some  elisions  from  arrant  careless- 
ness, depriving  it  of  its  predecessor's  merits  of  being  good  French. 

Miss  Winter  had  been  so  provoked,  that  she  believed  this  to  be 
an  effect  of  ill  temper,  and  declared  that  she  should  certainly  have 
kept  Ethel  at  home  to  write  it  over  again,  if  it  had  not  so  happened 
that  Dr.  May  had  proposed  to  walk  part  of  the  way  with  her  and 
Bichard,  and  the  governess  was  unwilling  to  bring  her  into  disgrace 
with  him.  Margaret  was  so  grateful  to  her  for  this  forbearance, 
that  it  disposed  her  to  listen  the  more  patiently  to  the  same  repre- 
sentations put  in,  what  Miss  Winter  fancied,  different  forms.  Mar- 
garet was  much  perplexed.  She  could  not  but  see  much  truth  in 
what  Miss  Winter  said,  and  yet  she  could  not  bear  to  thwart  Ethel, 
whom  she  admired  with  her  whole  heart ;  and  that  dry  experience, 
and  prejudiced  preciseness,  did  not  seem  capable  of  entering  into  her 
sister's  thirst  for  learning  and  action.  When  Miss  Winter  said 
Ethel  would  grow  up  odd,  eccentric,  and  blue,  Margaret  was  ready 
to  answer  that  she  would  be  superior  to  everyone ;  and  when  the 
governess  urged  her  to  insist  on  Cocksmoor  being  given  up,  she  felt 
impatient  of  that  utter  want  of  sympathy  for  the  good  work. 

All  that  evening  Margaret  longed  for  a  quiet  time  to  reflect,  but 
it  never  came  till  she  was  in  bed ;  and  when  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  how  to  speak  to  Ethel,  it  was  five  times  harder  to  secure  her 
alone.  Even  when  Margaret  had  her  in  the  room  by  herself,  she 
looked  wild  and  eager,  and  said  she  could  not  stay,  she  had  some 
Thucydides  to  do. 

'  Won't  you  stay  with  me  a  little  while,  quietly  ?  '  said  Marga- 
ret ,  '  we  hardly  ever  have  one  of  our  talks.' 

'  I  didn't  mean  to  vex  you,  dear  Margaret.  I  like  nothing  so 
well,  only  we  are  never  alone,  and  I've  no  time.' 

'  Pray  do  spare  me  a  minute,  Ethel,  for  I  have  something  that 
I  must  say  to  you,  and  I  am  afraid  you  won't  like  it — so  do  listen 
kindly.' 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Ethel,  '  Miss  Winter  has  been  talking  to  you.  I 
know  she  said  she  would  tell  you  that  she  wants  me  to  give  up 
Cocksmoor.     You  aren't  dreaming  of  it,  Margaret ! ' 

'  Indeed,  dear  Ethel,  I  should  be  very  sorry,  but  one  thing  I  am 
sure  of,  that  there  is  something  amiss  in  your  way  of  going  on.' 

'  Did  she  show  you  that  horrid  exercise  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 
Well,  I  know  it  was  baddish  writing,  but  just  listen,  Margaret. 
We  promised  six  of  the  children  to  print  them  each  a  verse  of  a 
hymn  on  a  card  to  learn.  Ritchie  did  three,  and  then  could  not  go 
on,  for  the  book,  that  the  others  were  in,  was  lost  till  last  evening, 
and  then  he  was  writing  for  papa.  So  I  thought  I  would  do  them 
before  we  went  to  Cocksmoor,  and  that  I  should  squeeze  time  out 
Vol.  I.— 8 


lYO  TUE   1»AI6Y    CHAIN. 

of  the  morning;  but  I  got  a  bit  of  Sophocles  that  was  so  horridly 
hard,  it  ate  up  all  my  time,  and  I  don't  understand  it  properly-  now; 
I  must  get  Norman  to  tell  me.  And  that  ran  in  my  head,  and 
made  me  make  a  mistake  in  my  sum,  and  have  to  begin  it  again. 
Then,  just  as  I  thought  I  had  saved  time  over  the  exercise,  comes 
Miss  Winter  and  tells  me  I  must  do  it  over  again,  and  scolds  me, 
besides,  about  the  ink  on  my  fingers.  She  would  send  'me  up  at 
once  to  get  it  off,  and  I  could  not  find  nurse  and  her  bottle  of  stuff 
for  it,  so  that  wasted  ever  so  much  more  time,  and  I  was  so  vexed 
that,  really  and  truly,  my  hand  shook,  and  I  could  not  write  any 
better.' 

*  No,  I  thought  it  looked  as  if  you  had  been  in  one  of  your 
agonies.' 

'  And  she  thought  I  did  it  on  purpose,  and  that  made  me  angry, 
and  so  we  got  into  a  dispute,  and  aAvay  went  all  the  little  moment 
I  might  have  had,  and  I  was  forced  to  go  to  Cocksmoor  as  a  prom- 
ise breaker ! ' 

'  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  have  taken  pains  at  irst  ?  ' 
'  AVell,  so  I  did  with  the  sense,  but  I  hadn't  time  to  look  at  the 
writing  much.' 

'  You  would  have  made  better  speed  if  you  had.' 
'  Oh !  yes,  I  know  I  was  wrong,  but  it  is  a  great  plague  alto- 
gether,    lieally,  Margaret,  I  shan't  get  Thucydides  done.' 

'  You  must  wait  a  little  longer,  please,  Ethel,  for  I  want  to  say 

to  you  that  I  am  afraid  you  are  doing  too  much,  and  that  prevents 

you  from  doing  things  well,  as  you  were  trying  to  do  last  autumn.' 

'  Y'"ou  are  not  thinking  of  my  not  going  to  Cocksmoor  !  '  cried 

Ethel,  vehemently. 

'  I  want  you  to  consider  what  is  to  be  done,  dear  Ethel.  You 
thought,  last  autumn,  a  great  deal  of  curing  your  careless  habits, 
now  you  seem  not  to  have  time  to  attend.  Y'ou  can  do  a  great  deal 
very  fast,  I  know,  but  isn't  it  a  pity  to  be  always  in  a  hurry  ? ' 
'  It  isn't  Cocksmoor  that  is  the  reason,'  said  Ethel. 
'  No  :  you  did  pretty  well  when  you  began,  but  you  know  that 
was  in  the  holidays,  when  you  had  no  Latin  and  Greek  to  do.' 

'  0  but,  Margaret,  they  won't  take  so  much  time  when  I  have 
once  got  over  the  difficulties,  and  see  my  way,  but  just  now  they 
have  put  Norman  into  such  a  frightfully  difficult  play,  that  I  can 
hardly  get  on  at  all  with  it,  and  there's  a  new  kind  of  Creek  verses, 
too,  and  I  don't  make  out  from  the  book  how  to  manage  them. 
Norman  showed  me  on  Saturday,  but  mine  won't  be  right.  AVhcn 
I've  got  over  that,  I  shan't  be  so  hurried.' 

'  Uut  Norman  will  go  on  to  something  harder,  I  suppose.' 
'  I  dare  say  I  shall  bo  able  to  do  it.' 

'  Perhaps  you  might,  but  I  want  you  to  consider  if  you  are  not 
working  beyond  what  can  be  good  for  anybody.  Y'^ou  see  Norman 
is  much  cleverer  than  most  boys,  and  you  are  a  year  younger;  and 


THE   DAISY    CnAEs*.  171 

besides  doing  all  his  work  at  the  head  of  the  school,  his  whole 
business  of  the  day,  you  have  Cocksmoor  to  attend  to,  and  your 
own  lessons,  besides  reading  all  the  books  that  come  into  the  house. 
Now  isn't  that  more  than  is  reasonable  to  expect  any  head  and 
hands  to  do  properly  ?  ' 

'  But  if  I  can  do  it  ?  ' 

'  But  can  you,  dear  Ethel  ?  Aren't  you  always  racing  from 
one  thing  to  another,  doing  them  by  halves,  feeling  hunted,  and 
then  growing  vexed  ?  ' 

'  I  know  I  have  been  cross  lately,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  it's  the 
being  so  bothered.' 

'  And  why  are  you  bothered  ?  Isn't  it  that  you  undertake  too 
much  ? ' 

'  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  '  said  Ethel,  in  an  injured,  un- 
convinced voice.     '  Not  give  up  my  children  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  Margaret ;  '  but  don't  think  me  very  unkind  if  I  say, 
suppose  you  left  oif  trying  to  keep  up  with  Norman.' 

'  Oh  !  Margaret !  Margaret ! '  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
'  We  have  hardly  missed  doing  the  same  eveiy  day  since  the  first 
Latin  grammar  was  put  into  his  hands  ! ' 

'  I  know  it  would  be  very  hard,'  said  Margaret,  but  Ethel  con- 
tinued, in  a  piteous  tone,  a  little  sentimental :  '  From  hie  hoec  hoc 
up  to  Alcaics  and  beta  Thukididou  we  have  gone  on  together,  and 
I  can't  bear  to  give  it  up.     I'm  sure  I  can — ' 

*  Stop,  Ethel,  I  really  doubt  whether  you  can.  Do  you  know 
that  Norman  was  telling  papa,  the  other  day,  that  it  was  very  odd 
Dr.  Hoxton  gave  them  such  easy  lessons.' 

Ethel  looked  very  much  mortified. 

'  You  see,'  said  Margaret,  kindly,  '  we  all  know  that  men  have 
more  power  than  women,  and  I  suppose  the  time  has  come  for  Nor- 
man to  pass  beyond  you.  He  would  not  be  cleverer  than  anyone, 
if  he  could  not  do  more  than  a  girl  at  home.' 

'  He  has  so  much  more  time  for  it,'  said  Ethel. 

'  That's  the  very  thing.  Now  consider,  Ethel.  His  work,  after 
he  goes  to  Oxford,  will  be  doing  his  very  utmost — and  you  know 
what  an  utmost  that  is.  If  you  could  keep  up  with  him  at  all,  you 
must  give  your  whole  time  and  thoughts  to  it,  and  when  you  had 
done  so — if  3'ou  could  get  all  the  honours  in  the  University — what 
would  it  come  to  ?     You  can't  take  a  first-class.' 

'  I  don't  want  one,'  said  Ethel ;  '  I  only  can't  bear  not  to  do  as 
Norman  does,  and  I  like  Greek  so  much.' 

'  And  for  that  would  you  give  up  being  a  useful,  steady  daugh- 
ter and  sister  at  home  ?  The  sort  of  woman  that  dear  mamma 
ffished  to  make  you,  and  a  comfort  to  papa.' 

Ethel  was  silent,  and  large  tears  were  gathering. 
'  You  own  that  that  is  the  first  thing  ?  ' 
'  Yes,'  said  Ethel,  faintly. 


172  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

'  And  that  it  is  what  you  fail  in  most?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Then,  Ethel  dearest,  -when  you  made  up  your  mind  to  Cocli* 
moor,  you  knew  those  things  could  not  be  done  without  a  sacrifice  ? 

'  Yes,  but  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  this.' 

Margaret  was  wise  enough  not  to  press  her,  and  she  sat  down 
and  sighed  pitifully.  Presently  she  said,  '  Margaret,  if  you  would 
only  lot  me  leave  oflF  that  stupid  old  French,  and  horrid  dull  read- 
ing with  Miss  "Winter,  I  should  have  plenty  of  time  for  everything; 
and  what  docs  one  learn  by  hearing  Mary  read  poetry  she  can't 
understand  ? ' 

'  You  work,  don't  you  ?  But  indeed,  Ethel,  don't  say  that  I 
can  let  you  leave  oif  anything.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had  that  au- 
thority. If  it  be  done  at  all,  it  must  be  by  papa's  consent,  and  if 
you  wish  me  to  ask  him  about  it,  I  will,  only  I  think  it  would  vex 
Miss  Winter;  and  I  don't  think  dear  mamma  would  have  liked 
Greek  and  Cocksmoor  to  swallow  up  all  the  little  common  lady-like 
things.' 

Ethel  made  two  or  three  great  gulps :  '  Margaret,  must  I  give 
up  everything,  and  forget  all  my  Latin  and  Greek  ? ' 

'  I  should  think  that  would  be  a  great  pity,'  said  Margaret. 
'  If  you  were  to  give  up  the  verse-making,  and  the  trying  to  do  as 
much  as  Norman,  and  fix  some  time  in  the  day — half-an-hour,  per- 
haps, for  your  Greek — I  think  it  might  do  very  well.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Ethel,  much  relieved ;  '  I'm  glad  you  don't 
want  me  to  leave  it  all  ofi".  I  hope  Norman  won't  be  vexed,'  she 
dddcd,  looking  a  little  melancholy. 

But  Norma.'Q  had  not  by  any  means  the  sort  of  sentiment  on  the 
subject  that  she  had:  '  Of  course,  you  know,  Ethel,'  said  he,  'it 
must  have  come  to  this  some  time  or  other,  and  if  you  find  those 
verses  too  hard,  and  that  they  take  up  too  much  of  your  time,  you 
had  better  give  them  up.' 

Ethel  did  not  like  anything  to  be  said  to  be  too  hard  for  her, 
and  was  very  near  pleading  she  only  wanted  time,  but  some  recol- 
lection came  across  her,  and  presently  she  said,  '  I  suppose  it  is  a 
wrong  sort  of  ambition  to  want  to  learn  more,  in  one's  own  way, 
when  one  is  told  it  is  not  good  for  one.  I  was  just  going  to  say 
I  hated  being  a  woman,  and  having  these  tiresome  little  trifles — my 
duty — instead  of  learning,  which  is  yours,  Norman.' 

'  I'm  glad  you  did  not,'  said  Norman,  '  for  it  would  have  been 
very  silly  of  you;  and  I  assure  you,  Ethel,  it  is  really  time  for  you 
to  stop,  or  you  would  get  into  a  regular  learned  lady,  and  be  good 
fur  nothing.  I  don't  mean  that  knowing  more  than  other  people 
wimld  make  you  so,  but  minding  nothing  else  would.' 

This  argument  from  Norman  himself,  did  much  to  reconcile 
Ethel's  mind  to  the  sacrifice  she  had  made ;  and  when  she  went  to 
bed,  she  tried  to  work  out  the  question  in  her  own  mind,  whether 


THE   DAISY   CHALN".  173 

her  eagerness  for  classical  learning  was  a  wrong  sort  of  ambition,  to 
know  what  other  girls  did  not,  and  whether  it  was  right  to  crave 
for  more  knowledge  than  was  thought  advisable  for  her.  She  onlj 
bewildered  herself,  and  went  to  sleep  before  she  had  settled  any- 
thing, but  that  she  knew  she  must  make  all  give  way  to  papa  first, 
and,  secondly,  to  Cocksmoor. 

Meanwhile  Margaret  had  told  her  father  what  had  passed.  He 
was  only  surprised  to  hear  that  Ethel  had  kept  up  so  long  with 
Norman,  and  thought  that  it  was  quitd  right  that  she  should  not 
undertake  so  much,  agreeing  more  entirely  than  Margaret  had 
expected  with  Miss  Winter's  view,  that  it  would  be  hurtful  to  body 
as  well  as  mind. 

'  It  is  perfectly  ridiculous  to  think  of  her  attempting  it !  '  he 
said.     '  I  am  glad  you  have  put  a  stop  to  it.' 

'  I  am  glad  I  have,'  said  Margaret ;  '  and  dear  Ethel  behaved 
80  very  well.  If  she  had  resisted,  it  would  have  puzzled  me  very 
much,  I  must  have  asked  you  to  settle  it.  But  it  is  very  odd,  papa, 
Ethel  is  the  one  of  them  all  who  treats  me  most  as  if  I  had  real 
authority  over  her ;  she  lets  me  scold  her,  asks  my  leave,  never 
seems  to  recollect  for  a  moment  how  little  older  I  am,  and  how 
much  cleverer  she  is.  I  am  sure  I  never  should  have  submitted  so 
readily.  And  that  always  makes  it  more  difficult  to  me  to  dii-cct 
her  j  I  don't  like  to  take  upon  me  with  her,  because  it  seems  wrong 
to  have  her  obeying  me,  as  if  she  were  a  mere  child.' 

'  She  is  a  fine  creature,'  said  Dr.  May,  emphatically.  '  It  just 
shows  the  fact,  the  higher  the  mind,  the  readier  the  submission. 
But  you  don't  mean  that  you  have  any  difficulty  with  the  others  ? ' 

'  0  no,  no.  Flora  never  could  need  any  interference,  especially 
from  me,  and  Mary  is  a  thorough  good  girl.  I  only  meant  that 
Ethel  lays  herself  out  to  be  ruled  in  quite  a  remarkable  way.  I 
am  sure,  though  she  d  oes  love  learning,  her  real  love  is  for  good- 
ness, and  for  you,  papa.' 

Ethel  would  have  thought  her  sacrifice  well  paid  for,  had  sho 
seen  her  father's  look  of  mournful  pleasure. 


CHAPTER    XIX.      . 

'  O  ruthful  scene!  when  from  a  nook  obscure. 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see, 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure, 
Phe  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee, 
She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free.' 

Shekstoke. 

The  s».tting  sun  shone  into  the  great  west  window  of  the  school  at 
Stoneborough,  on  its  bare  walls,  the  master's  desks,  the  forms 
polished  with  use,  and  the  square,  inky,  hacked  and  hewed  chests, 
carved  with  the  names  of  many  generations  of  boys. 


174  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

About  six  or  eight  little  boys  were  clearing  away  the  books  or 
papers  that  they,  or  those  who  owned  them  as  fags,  had  left  astray, 
and  a  good  deal  of  talk  and  laughing  was  going  on  among  them. 
'  Ila  ! '  exclaimed  one,  '  here  has  Harrison  left  his  book  behind  him 
that  he  was  showing  us  the  gladiators  in  ! '  and,  standing  by  the 
third  master's  desk,  he  turned  over  a  page  or  two  of  Smith's  Anti- 
«iuitics,  exclaiming,  '  It  is  full  of  pictures — here's  an  old  man  blow- 
ing the  bellows — ' 

'  Let  me  see  ! '  cried  Tom  May,  precipitating  himself  across  the 
benches  and  over  the  desk,  with  so  little  caution,  that  there  was  an 
outcry ;  and,  to  his  horror,  he  beheld  the  ink  spilled  over  Mr.  Har- 
rison's book,  while  '  There,  August !  you've  been  and  done  it !  ' 
'  You'll  catch  it ! '  resounded  on  all  sides. 

'  What  good  will  staring  with  your  mouth  open  do  ! '  exclaimed 
Edward  Anderson,  the  eldest  present.  '  Here  !  a  bit  of  blotting 
paper  this  moment ! ' 

Tom,  dreadfully  frightened,  handed  a  sheet  torn  from  an  old 
paper-case  that  he  had  inheritocl  from  Harry,  saying  despairingly, 
'  It  won't  take  it  out,  will  it  ? ' 

'  No,  little  stupid  head,  but  don't  you  see,  I'm  stopping  it  from 
running  down  the  edges,  or  soaking  in.  He  won't  be  the  wiser  till 
h^  opens  it  again  at  that  place.' 

'  When  he  does,  he  will,'  said  the  bewildered  Tom. 

•  Let  him.     It  won't  tell  tales.' 

'  He's  coming  ! '  cried  another  boy,  '  he  is  close  at  the  door.' 

Anderson  hastily  shut  the  book  over  the  blotting-paper,  which  ho 
did  not  venture  to  retain  in  his  hand,  dragged  Tom  down  from  the 
desk,  and  was  apparently  entirely  occupied  with  arranging  his  own 
box,  when  Mr.  Harrison  came  in.  Tom  crouched  behind  the  raised 
lid,  quaking  in  every  limb,  conscious  he  ought  to  confess,  but 
destitute  of  resolution  to  do  so,  and,  in  a  perfect  agony  as  the 
master  went  to  the  desk,  took  up  the  book,  and  carried  it  away,  so 
unconscious,  that  Larkins,  a  great  wag,  only  waited  till  his  back 
was  turned^  to  exclaim,  'Ha!  old  fellow,  30U  don't  know  what 
you've  got  tnere  ! ' 

'Hollo!  May  junior,  will  you  never  leave  off  staring?'  you 
won't  see  a  bit  further  for  it,'  said  Edward  Anderson,  shaking  him 
by  the  ear;  'come  to  your  senses  and  know  your  friends.' 

'  He'll  open  it ! '  gasped  Tom. 

'  So  he  will,  but  I'd  bet  ninety  to  one,  it  is  not  at  that  page,  or 
if  he  does,  it  won't  tell  tales,  unless,  indeed,  he  happened  to  see 
you  standing  there,  crouching  and  shaking.  That's  the  right  way 
to  bring  him  upon  you.' 

'  But  suppose  he  opens  it,  and  knows  who  was  in  school  ? ' 

'  What  then  V  D'ye  think  we  can't  stand  by  each  other,  and 
keep  our  own  counsel  ?  ' 

'  But  the  blotting-paper — suppose  he  knows  that  I' 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  175 

There  was  a  good  laugh  all  round  at  this,  '  as  if  Harrison  kne-w 
sveryone's  blotting-paper  ! ' 

'Yes,  but  Harry  used  to  write  his  name  all  over  his — see — and 
draw  union-jacks  on  it.' 

'  If  he  did,  the  date  is  not  there.  Do  you  think  the  ink  is 
going  to  say  March  2nd  ?  Why  should  not  July  have  done  it  last 
half?' 

'  July  would  have  told  if  he  had,'  said  Larkins,     '  That's  no  go.' 

'  Aye  !  That's  the  way — the  Mays  are  all  like  girls — can't  keep 
a  secret — not  one  of  them.  There,  I've  done  more  for  you  than 
ever  one  of  them  would  have  done — own  it — and  he  strode  up  to 
Tom,  and  grasped  his  wrists,  to  force  the  confession  from  him.' 

'  But — he'll  ask  when  he  finds  it  out — ' 

'  Let  him.  We  know  nothing  about  it.  Don't  be  coming  the 
good  boy  over  me  like  your  brothers.  That  won't  do — I  know 
whose  eyes  are  not  too  short-sighted  to  read  upside  down.' 

Tom  shrank  and  looked  abject,  clinging  to  the  hope  that  Mr, 
Harrison  would  not  open  the  book  for  weeks,  months,  or  years. 

But  the  next  morning,  his  heart  died  within  him,  when  he  be- 
held the  unfortunate  piece  of  blotting-paper,  displayed  by  Mr.  Har- 
rison, with  the  inquiry  whether  anyone  knew  to  whom  it  belonged, 
and  what  made  it  worse  was,  that  his  sight  would  not  reach  far 
enough  to  assure  him  whether  Harry's  name  was  on  it,  and  he 
dreaded  that  Norman  or  Hector  Ernesclifie  should  recognise  the 
nautical  designs.  However,  both  let  it  pass,  and  no  one  through 
the  whole  school  attempted  to  identify  it.  One  danger  was  past, 
but  the  next  minute  Mr.  Harrison  opened  his  Smith's  Antiquities 
at  the  page  where  stood  the  black  witness.  Tom  gazed  round  in 
despair,  he  could  not  see  his  brother's  face,  but  Edward  Anderson, 
from  the  second  f;rm,  returned  him  a  glance  of  contemptuous 
encouragement. 

'  This  book,'  said  Mr,  Harrison,  '  was  left  in  school  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  yesterday.  When  I  opened  it  again,  it  was  in  this  con- 
dition. Do  any  of  you  know  how  it  happened  ? '  A  silence,  and 
he  continued,  '  Who  was  in  school  at  the  time  ?  Anderson,  junior, 
can  you  tell  me  anything  of  it  ?  ' 

'  No,  Sir.' 

'  You  know  nothing  of  it  ? ' 

'No,  Sir.' 

Cold  chills  crept  over  Tom,  as  Mr.  Harrison  looked  round  to 
refresh  his  memory.     '  Larkins,  do  you  know  how  this  happened  ? ' 

'  No,  Sir,'  said  Larkins,  boldly,  satisfying  his  conscience  because 
he  had  not  seen  the  manner  of  the  overthrow. 

'  Ernescliffe,  were  you  there  ? ' 

'  No,  Sir.' 

Tom's  timid  heart  fluttered  in  dim  hope  that  he  had  been  over' 
looked,  as  Mr.  Harrison  paused,  then  said,  '  Remember,  it  is  con- 


176  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

ccalmcnt  that  is  the  evil,  not  the  damage  to  the  book.  I  shall 
have  a  good  opinion  ever  after  of  a  boy  honest  enough  to  confess. 
May  junior,  I  saw  you,'  he  added,  hopefully  and  kindly.  '  Don't 
be  afraid  to  speak  out,  if  you  did  meet  with  a  mischance.' 

Tom  coloured  and  turned  pale.  Anderson  and  Larkins  grim- 
aced at  him,  to  remind  him  that  they  had  told  untruths  for  hia  sake, 
and  that  he  must  not  betray  them.  It  was  the  justification  he 
wanted  ;  he  was  relieved  to  fancy  himself  obliged  to  tell  the  direct 
falsehood,  for  which  a  long  course  of  petty  acted  deceits  had  paved 
the  way,  for  he  was  in  deadly  terror  of  the  effects  of  truth. 

'  No,  Sir.'  lie  could  hardly  believe  he  had  said  the  words,  or 
that  they  Avould  be  so  readily  accepted,  for  Mr.  Harrison  had  only 
the  impression  that  he  knew  who  the  guilty  person  was,  and  would 
not  tell,  and,  therefore,  put  no  more  questions  to  him,  but,  after  a 
few  more  vain  inquiries,  was  bafiled,  and  gave  up  the  investigation. 

Tom  thought  he  should  have  been  very  unhappy  ;  he  had  always 
heard  that  deceit  was  a  heavy  burthen,  and  would  give  continual 
stings,  but  he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  very  comfortable  on  the 
whole,  and  able  to  dismiss  repentance  as  well  as  terror.  His  many 
underhand  ways  with  llichard  had  taken  away  the  tenderness  of  his 
conscience,  though  his  knowledge  of  what  was  right  was  clear;  and 
he  was  quite  ready  to  accept  the  feeling  prevalent  at  Stoneborough, 
that  truth  was  not  made  for  school-boys. 

The  axiom  was  prevalent,  but  not  universal,  and  parties  were 
running  high.  Norman  May,  who,  as  head  boy,  had,  in  play-hours, 
the  responsibility,  and  almost  the  authority  of  a  master,  had  taken 
higher  ground  than  was  usual  even  with  the  well-disposed  ;  and  felt 
it  his  duty  to  check  abuses  and  malpractices  that  his  predecessors 
had  allowed.  His  friend,  Cheviot,  and  the  right-minded  set,  main- 
tained his  authority  with  all  their  might ;  but  Harvey  Anderson 
regarded  his  interference  as  vexatious,  always  took  the  part  of  the 
ollenders,  and  opposed  him  in  every  possible  way,  thus  gathering  as 
his  adherents  not  only  the  idle  and  mischievous,  but  the  weak  and 
mediocre,  and,  among  this  set,  there  was  a  positive  bitterness  of 
feeling  to  3Iay,  and  all  whom  they  considered  as  belonging  to  him. 

In  shielding  Tom  May  and  leading  him  to  deceive,  the  younger 
Anderson  had  gained  a  conquest — in  him  the  Mays  had  fallen  from 
that  pinnacle  of  truth  which  was  a  standing  reproach  to  the  average 
Stoneborough  code — and,  from  that  time,  he  was  under  the  especial 
patronage  of  his  friend.  He  was  taught  the  most  ingenious  arts  of 
Faying  a  lesson  without  learning  it,  and  of  showing  up  other  people's 
tasks;  whispers  and  signs  were  directed  to  him  to  help  him  out  of 
difficulties,  and  he  was  sought  out  and  put  forward  whenever  a  for- 
bidden pleasure  Avas  to  be  enjoyed  by  stealth.  These  were  his 
.stimulants  under  a  heavy  bondage;  he  was  teased  and  frightened, 
bullied  and  tormented,  whenever  it  was  the  fancy  of  Ned  Anderson 
and  his  associates  to  make  his  timidity  their  sport ;  he  was  scorned 


THE   DAISY   CHADf.  177 

and  ill- treated,  and  driven,  by  bodily  terror,  into  acts  alarming  tcs 
his  conscience,  dangerous  in  their  consequences,  and  painful  in  the 
perpetration;  and  yet,  among  all  his  suflFerings,  the  little  coward 
dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  truth,  though  it  would  have  set  him 
free  at  once  from  this  wretched  tyranny. 

Excepting  on  holidays,  and  at  hours  when  the  town-boys  were 
allowed  to  go  home,  there  were  strict  rules  confining  all  except  the 
sixth  form  to  their  bounds,  consisting  of  two  large  courts,  and  an 
extensive  field  bordered  by  the  river  and  the  road.  On  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  bridge  there  was  a  turnpike  gate,  where  the  keeper 
exposed  stalls  of  various  eatables,  very  popular  among  the  boys, 
chiefly  because  they  were  not  allowed  to  deal  there.  Ginger-beer 
could  also  be  procured,  and  there  were  suspicions,  that  the  bottles  so 
called,  contained  something  contraband. 

'  August,'  said  Norman,  as  they  were  coming  home  from  school 
one  evening,  '  did  I  see  you  coming  over  the  bridge  ? ' 

Tom  would  not  answer. 

'  So  you  have  been  at  Ballhatchet's  gate  ?  I  can't  think  what 
could  take  you  there.  If  you  want  tarts,  I  am  sure  poor  old 
Betty's  are  just  as  good.     What  made  you  go  there  ?  ' 

'  Nothing,'  said  Tom. 

'  Well,  mind  you  don't  do  it  again,  or  I  shall  have  to  take  you 
in  hand,  which  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  do.  That  man  is  a  regular 
bad  character,  and  neither  my  father  nor  Dr.  Hoxton  would  have 
one  of  us  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  as  you  know.' 

Tom  was  in  hopes  it  was  over,  but  Norman  went  on.  '  I  am 
afraid  you  are  getting  into  a  bad  way.  Why  won't  you  mind  what 
I  have  told  you  plenty  of  times  before,  that  no  good  comes  of  going 
after  Ned  Anderson,  and  Axworthy,  and  that  set.  What  were  you 
doing  with  them  to-day  ? '  but,  receiving  no  answer,  he  went  on. 
'  You  always  sulk  when  I  speak  to  you.  I  suppose  you  think  I 
have  no  right  to  row  you,  but  I  do  it  to  save  you  from  worse.  You 
can't  never  be  found  out.'  This  startled  Tom,  but  Norman  had  no 
suspicion.  '  If  you  go  on,  you  will  get  into  some  awful  scrape,  and 
papa  will  be  grieved.  I  would  not,  for  all  the  world,  have  him  put 
out  of  heart  about  you.  Think  of  him,  Tom,  and  try  to  keep 
straight.'  Tom  would  say  nothing,  only  reflecting  that  his  elder 
brother  was  harder  upon  him  than  anyone  else  would  be,  and  Nor- 
man grew  warmer.  '  If  you  let  Anderson  junior  get  hold  of  you 
and  teach  you  his  tricks,  you'll  never  be  good  for  anything.  He 
seems  good-natured  now,  but  he  will  turn  against  you,  as  he  did 
with  Harry.  I  know  how  it  is,  and  you  had  better  take  my  word, 
and  trust  to  me  and  straight-forwardness,  when  you  get  into  a  mess.' 

'  I'm  in  no  scrape,'  said  Tom,  so  doggedly,  that   Norman  lost 

patience,  and  spoke  with  more  displeasure.      *  You  will  be  then,  if 

you  go  out  of  bounds,  and  run  Anderson's  errands,  and  shirk  work. 

You'd  better  take  care.     It  is  my  place  to  keep  order,  and  I  can't 

Vol.  I.— 8 


178  Tin-:  daisy  chain. 

let  you  off  for  being  my  brother  ;  so  remember,  if  I  catch  you  goiug 
to  JJallhatchet's  again,  you  may  make  sure  of  a  licking.' 

So  the  warning  closed — Tom  more  alarmed  at  the  aspect  of 
right,  which  he  fancied  terrific,  and  Norman  with  some  compunc- 
tion at  having  lost  temper  and  threatened,  when  he  meant  to  have 
gained  him  by  kindness. 

Norman  recollected  his  threat  with  a  qualm  of  dismay  when,  at 
the  end  of  the  week,  as  he  was  returning  from  a  walk  with  Cheviot, 
Tom  darted  out  of  the  gate-house.  He  was  flying  across  the  bridge, 
with  something  under  his  arm,  when  Norman  laid  a  detaining  hand 
on  his  collar,  making  a  sign  at  the  same  time  to  Cheviot  to  leave  them. 

'  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  '  said  Norman,  sternly,  marching 
Tom  into  the  field.  '  So  you've  been  there  again.  AVhat's  that 
under  your  jacket  ?  ' 

'  Only — only  what  I  was  sent  for,'  and  he  tried  to  squeeze  it 
under  the  flap. 

'What  is  it?  a  bottle— ' 

'  Only — only  a  bottle  of  ink.' 

Norman  seized  it,  and  gave  Tom  a  fierce  angry  shake,  but  the 
indignation  was  mixed  with  sorrow.  '  0  Tom,  Tom,  these  fellows 
have  brought  you  a  pretty  pass.  Who  would  have  thought  of  such 
a  thing  from  us  ! ' 

Tom  cowered,  but  felt  only  terror. 

'  Speak  truth,'  said  Norman,  ready  to  shake  it  out  of  him ;  '  is 
this  for  Anderson  junior  ?  ' 

Under  those  eyes  flashing  with  generous,  sorrowful  wrath,  he 
dared  not  utter  another  falsehood,  but  Anderson's  threats  chained 
him,  and  he  preferred  his  tliraldom  to  throwing  himself  on  the 
mercy  of  his  brother  who  loved  him.     He  would  not  speak. 

'  I  am  glad  it  is  not  for  yourself,'  said  Norman ;  '  but  do  you 
remember  what  I  said,  in  case  I  found  you  there  again  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  don't,  dont !  '  cried  the  boy.  '  I  would  never  have  gone 
if  they  had  not  made  me,' 

'  Made  you  V  '  said  Norman,  disdainfull}-,  '  how  ?  ' 

*  They  would  have  thrashed  me — they  pinched  my  fingers  iu 
the  box — they  pulled  my  cars — Oh,  don't — ' 

'  Poor  little  fellow  ! '  said  Norman  ;  '  but  it  is  your  own  fault. 
If  you  won't  keep  with  me,  or  Ernescliffe,  of  course  they  will  bully 
you.  But  I  must  not  let  you  off — I  must  keep  my  word  !  '  Tom 
cried,  sobbed,  and  implored  in  vain.  '  I  can't  help  it,'  he  said, 
'  and  now,  don't  howl !  I  had  rather  no  one  knew  it.  It  will  soon 
be  over.  I  never  thought  to  have  this  to  do  to  one  of  us.'  Tom 
roared  and  struggled,  till,  releasing  him,  he  said,  '  There,  that  will 
do.  Stop  bellowing,  I  was  obliged,  and  I  can't  have  hurt  you  much, 
have  I':"  he  added  more  kindly,  while  Tom  went  on  crying,  and 
turning  from  liini.     '  It  is  nothing  to  care  about,  I  am  sure,  look 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  179 

up ;  and  he  pulled  down  his  hands.  '  Say  you  are  sorry — speai 
the  truth — keep  with  me,  and  no  one  shall  hurt  you  again.' 

Very  different  this  from  Tom's  chosen  associates ;  but  he  was  still 
obdurate,  sullen,  and  angry,  and  would  not  speak,  nor  open  his 
heart  to  those  kind  words.  After  one  more,  '  I  could  not  help  it, 
Tom,  you've  no  business  to  be  sulky,'  Norman  took  up  the  bottle, 
opened  it,  smelt,  and  tasted,  and  was  about  to  throw  it  into  the 
river,  when  Tom  exclaimed,  '  0  don't,  don't !  what  will  they  do  to 
me  ?  give  it  to  me  ! ' 

'  Did  they  give  you  the  money  to  pay  for  it  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  let  me  have  it.' 

'  How  much  was  it  ?  ' 

'  Fourpence.' 

'  I'll  settle  that,'  and  the  bottle  splashed  in  the  river.  '  Now 
then,  Tom,  don't  brood  on  it  any  more.  Here's  a  chance  for  you 
of  getting  quit  of  their  errands.  If  you  will  keep  in  my  sight,  I'll 
take  care  no  one  bullies  you,  and  you  may  still  leave  off  these  dis- 
graceful tricks,  and  do  well.' 

But  Tom's  evil  spirit  whispered  that  Norman  had  beaten  him, 
that  he  should  never  have  any  diversion  again,  and  that  Anderson 
would  punish  him ;  and  there  was  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  seeing 
that  his  perverse  silence  really  distressed  his  brother. 

'  If  you  will  go  on  this  way,  I  can't  help  it,  but  you'll  be  scrry 
some  day,'  said  Norman,  and  he  walked  thoughtfully  on,  looking 
back  to  see  whether  Tom  were  following,  as  he  did  slowly,  meditat- 
ing on  the  way,  how  he  should  avert  his  tyrant's  displeasure. 

Norman  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door  surveying  the  court, 
then  walked  up  to  a  party  of  boys,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  one,  holding  a  silver  fourpence  to  him.  '  Anderson  junior,'  said 
he,  '  there's  your  money.  I  am  not  going  to  let  Stoneborough  school 
be  turned  into  a  gin  palace.  I  give  you  notice,  it  is  not  to  be. 
Now,  you  are  not  to  bully  May  junior,  for  telling  me.  He  did  not, 
I  found  him  out.' 

Leaving  Anderson  to  himself  he  looked  for  Tom,  but  not  seeing 
him,  he  entered  the  Cloister,  for  it  was  the  hour  when  he  was  used 
to  read  there,  but  he  could  not  fix  his  mind.  He  wait  to  the  bench 
where  he  had  lain,  on  the  examination-day,  and  kneeling  on  it, 
looked  out  on  the  green  grass  where  the  graves  were.  '  Mother ! 
-Mother  ! '  he  murmured,  '  have  I  been  harsh  to  your  poor  little 
tender  sickly  boy  ?  I  couldn't  help  it.  Oh  !  if  you  were  but  here  ! 
We  are  all  going  wrong  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  How  should  Tom  be 
kept  from  this  evil  ? — it  is  ruining  him  !  mean,  false,  cowardly,  sullen 
— all  that  is  worst — and  your  son — Oh  !  Mother  !  and  all  I  do  only 
makes  him  shrink  more  from  me.  It  will  break  my  father's  heart, 
and  you  will  not  be  there  to  comfort  him.' 

Norman  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  a  fit  of  bitter  grief 
came  over  him.    But  his  sorrow  was  now  not  what  it  had  been  before 


180  THE   DAISY   CHATN-. 

hia  father's  resignation  had  tempered  it,  and  soon  it  turned  to 
prayer,  resolution,  and  hope. 

He  would  try  again  to  reason  quietly  with  hini,  when  the  alarm 
of  detection  and  irritation  should  have  gone  off,  and  he  sought  for 
tho  occasion ;  but,  alas  !  Tom  had  learnt  to  look  on  all  reproof  as 
'  rowing,'  and  considered  it  as  an  additional  injury  from  a  brother, 
who  according  to  the  Anderson  view,  should  have  connived  at  his 
offences,  and  turned  a  deafened  ear  and  dogged  countenance  to  all 
he  said.  The  foolish  boy  sought  after  the  Andersons  still  more,  and 
Norman  became  more  dispirited  about  him,  greatly  missing  Harry, 
that  constant  companion  and  follower,  who  would  have  shared  his 
perplexities,  and  removed  half  of  them,  in  his  own  part  of  the  school, 
by  the  influence  of  his  high,  courageous,  and  truthful  spirit. 

In  the  meantime  Richard  was  studying  hard  at  home,  with 
greater  hopefulness  and  vigour  than  he  had  ever  thrown  into  his 
work  before.  '  Suppose,'  Ethel  had  once  said  to  him,  *  that  when 
you  are  a  Clergyman,  you  could  bo  Curate  of  Cocksmoor,  when 
there  is  a  church  there.' 

'  When  ? '  said  Richard,  smiling  at  the  presumption  of  the 
scheme,  and  yet  it  formed  itself  into  a  sort  of  definite  hope.  Perhaps- 
they  might  persuade  Mr.  Ramsden  to  take  him  as  a  Curate  with  a 
view  to  Cocksmoor,  and  this  prospect,  vague  as  it  was,  gave  an  object 
and  hope  to  his  studies.  Everyone  thought  the  delay  of  his  exami- 
nation favourable  to  him,  and  he  now  read  with  a  determination  to 
succeed.  Dr.  May  had  offered  to  let  him  read  with  3Ir.  Harrison, 
but  Richard  thought  he  was  getting  on  pretty  well,  with  the  help 
Norman  gave  him ;  for  it  appeared  that  ever  since  Norman's  return 
from  Loudon,  he  had  been  assisting  Richard,  who  was  not  above 
being  taught  by  a  younger  brother ;  while  on  the  other  hand,  Nor- 
man, much  struck  by  his  humility,  would  not  for  the  world  have  pub- 
lished that  he  was  fit  to  act  as  his  cider's  tutor. 

One  evening,  when  the  two  boj's  came  in  from  school,  Tom  gave 
a  great  start,  and,  pulling  Mary  by  the  sleeve,  whispered,  '  How 
came  that  book  here  ?  ' 

'  It  is  Mr.  Harrison's. 

'  Yes,  I  know,  but  how  came  it  here  ?  ' 

'  Richard  borrowed  it  to  look  out  something,  and  Ethel  brought  it 
down.' 

A  little  re-assured,  Tom  took  up  an  exciting  story-book  and 
ensconsed  himself  by  the  fire,  but  his  agonies  were  great  during  tho 
ensuing  conversation. 

'  Norman,'  Ethel  was  exclaiming  in  delight,  '  do  you  know  this 
book  ? ' 

'  Smith  ?     Yes,  it  is  iu  the  school  library.' 

'  There's  everything  in  it  that  one  wants,  I  do  believe.  Here  is 
liuch  an  account  of  ancient  galleys — I  never  knew  how  they  managed 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  181 

tlieir  banks  of  roweii  before— Oh  !  and  the  Greek  houses — look  at 
the  pictures  too.' 

'  Some  of  them  are  the  same  as  Mr.  Rivers'  gems,'  said  Norman, 
standing  behind  her,  and  turning  the  leaves,  in  search  of  a  favourite 

'  Oh !  what  did  I  see  ?  is  that  ink  ? '  said  Flora,  from  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  table. 

'  Yes,  didn't  you  hear  ? '  said  Ethel.  '  Mr.  Harrison  told 
Ritchie  when  he  borrowed  it,  that  unluckily  one  day  this  spring  he 
left  it  in  school,  and  some  of  the  boys  must  have  upset  an  inkstand 
'^ver  it ;  but,  though  he  asked  them  all  round,  each  denied  it.  How 
I  should  hate  for  such  things  to  happen  !  and  it  was  a  prize  book  too.' 
.  While  Ethel  spoke  she  opened  the  marked  page,  to  show  the  ex- 
tent of  the  calamity,  and  as  she  did  so  Mary  exclaimed,  '  Dear  me  ! 
how  funny  !  why,  how  did  Harry's  blotting-paper  get  in  there  ?  ' 

Tom  shrank  into  nothing,  set  his  teeth,  and  pinched  his  fingers, 
ready  to  wish  they  were  on  Mary's  throat,  more  especially  as  the 
words  made  some  sensation.  Richard  and  Margaret  exchanged 
looks,  and  their  father,  who  had  been  reading,  sharply  raised  his 
eyes  and  said,  '  Harry's  blotting-paper !  How  do  you  know  that, 
Mary  ? ' 

'  It  is  Harry's,'  said  she,  all  unconscious,  '  because  of  that 
anchor  up  in  one  corner,  and  the  union-jack  in  the  other.  Don't 
you  see,  Ethel  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel,  '  nobody  drew  that  but  Harry.' 

'  Aye,  and  there  are  his  buttons,'  said  Mary,  much  amused  and 
delighted  with  these  relics  of  her  beloved  Harry.  '  Don't  you  re- 
member one  day  last  holidays,  papa  desired  Harry  to  write  and  ask 
Mr.  Ernescllffe  what  clothes  he  ought  to  have  for  the  naval  school, 
and  all  the  time  he  was  writing  the  letter,  he  was  drawing  sailor's 
buttons  on  his  blotting-paper.  I  wonder  how  ever  it  got  into  Mr. 
Harrison's  book ! ' 

Poor  Mary's  honest  wits  did  not  jump  to  a  conclusion  quite  so 
fast  as  other  people's,  and  she  little  knew  what  she  was  doing,  when, 
as  a  great  discovery,  she  exclaimed,  '  I  know !  Harry  gave  hia 
paper-case  to  Tom.     That's  the  way  it  got  to  school ! ' 

*  Tom  ! '  exclaimed  his  father,  suddenly  and  angrily,  *  where  aro 
you  going  ? ' 

*  To  bed,'  muttered  the  miserable  Tom,  twisting  his  hands.  A 
dead  silence  of  consternation  fell  on  all  the  room.  Mary  gazed  from 
one  to  the  other,  mystified  at  the  effect  of  her  words,  frightened  at 
her  father's  loud  voice,  and  at  Tom's  trembling  confusion.  The 
stillness  lasted  for  some  moments,  and  was  first  broken  by  Flora, 
as  if  she  had  caught  at  a  probability.  '  Some  one  might  have  used 
the  first  blotting-paper  that  came  to  hand,' 

'  Come  here,  Tom,'  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  voice  not  loud,  but 
trembling  with   anxiety;    then  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder; 


182  'J  UK   DAISY   CHAIN. 

Look  in  my  face.'     Tom  hung  his  head,  and  his  father  put  hij 
hand  under  his  chin,  and  raised  the  pale  terrified  face. 

*  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  us  the  miauing  of  this.  If  any  of  your 
friends  have  done  it,  we  will  keep  your  secret.  Look  up,  and  speak 
out.     How  did  your  blotting-paper  come  there  ? ' 

Tom  had  been  attempting  his  formei  system  of  silent  sullen 
ness,  but  there  was  anger  at  Mary,  and  fear  of  his  father  to  agitate 
him,  and  in  his  impatient  despair  at  thus  being  held  and  questioned, 
he  burst  out  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying. 

'  I  can't  have  you  roaring  here  to  dist.-css  Margaret,'  said  Dr. 
May.     '  Come  into  the  study  with  me.' 

But  Tom,  who  seemed  fairly  out  of  himself,  would  not  stir,  and 
a  screaming  and  kicking  scene  took  place,  before  he  was  carried 
into  the  study  by  his  brothers,  and  there  left  with  his  father. 
Mary,  meantime,  dreadfully  alarmed,  and  perceiving  that,  in  some 
way,  she  was  the  cause,  had  thrown  herself  upon  Margaret,  sobbing 
inconsolably,  as  she  begged  to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and  why 
papa  was  angry  with  Tom — had  she  made  him  so  ? 

Margaret  caressed  and  soothed  her,  to  the  best  of  her  ability, 
trying  to  persuade  her  that,  if  Tom  had  done  wrong,  it  was  better 
for  him  it  should  be  known,  and  assuring  her  that  no  one  could 
think  her  unkind,  nor  a  tell-tale;  then  dismissing  her  to  bed,  and 
Mary  was  not  unwilling  t.o  go,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  meet  Tom 
again,  only  begging  in  a  whisper  to  Ethel,  '  that,  if  dear  Tom  had 
not  done  it,  she  would  come  and  tell  her.' 

'  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  hope  of  that ! '  sighed  Ethel,  as  the 
door  closed  on  Mary. 

'  After  all,'  said  Flora,  '  he  has  not  said  anything.  If  he  has 
only  done  it,  and  not  confessed,  that  is  not  so  bad — it  is  only  the 
usual  fashion  of  boys.' 

'  Has  he  been  asked  ?  Did  he  deny  it  ?  '  said  Ethel,  looking  in 
Norman'fi  face,  as  if  she  hardly  ventured  to  put  the  question,  and 
she  only  received  sorrowful  signs  as  answers.  At  the  same  moment 
Dr.  May  calied  him.  JS'o  one  spoke.  Margaret  rested  her  head  on 
the  sofa,  and  looked  very  mournful,  Richard  stood  by  the  fire  with- 
out moving  limb  or  feature,  Flora  worked  fast,  and  Ethel  leant 
back  on  an  arm-chair,  biting  the  end  of  a  paper-knife. 

The  Doctor  and  Norman  came  back  together.  '  I  have  sent 
him  up  to  bed,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  I  must  take  him  to  Harrison  to- 
morrow morning.     It  is  a  terrible  business ! ' 

*  Has  he  confessed  it  ? '  said  Margaret. 

'  I  can  hardly  call  such  a  thing  a  confession — I  wormed  it  out 
bit  by  bit — I  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  telling  truth  or  not,  till 
I  called  Norman  in.' 

'  But  he  has  not  said  anything  more  untrue — ' 

'  Yes,  he  has  though  ! '  said  Dr.  May,  indignantly.  '  He  saia 
Ned  Anderson  put  the  paper  there,  and  had  been  taking  up  the  ink 


rilE   DAISY    CUAIN'.  183 

with  it — 'twas  his  doing — then  when  I  came  to  cross-examine  him 
I  found  that  though  Anderson  did  take  up  the  ink,  it  was  Tom 
himself  who  knocked  it  down — I  never  heard  anything  like  it — I 
never  could  have  believed  it ! ' 

'  It  must  all  he  Ned  Anderson's  doing !  '  cried  Flora.  '  They 
are  enough  to  spoil  anybody.' 

'  I  am  afraid  they  have  done  him  a  great  deal  of  harm,'  said 
Norman. 

'  And  what  have  you  been  about  all  the  time  '  exclaimed  the 
Doctor,  too  keenly  grieved  to  be  just.  '  I  should  have  thought  that 
with  you  at  the  head  of  the  school,  the  child  might  have  been  kept 
out  of  mischief;  but  there  have  you  been  going  your  own  way,  and 
leaving  him  to  be  ruined  by  the  very  worst  set  of  boys  ! ' 

Norman's  colour  rose  with  the  extreme  pain  this  unjust  accusa 
tion  caused  him,  and  his  voice,  though  low,  was  not  without  irrita 
tion.  I  have  tried.  I  have  not  done  as  much  as  I  ought,  perhaps 
but—' 

'  No,  I  think  not,  indeed  ! '  interrupted  his  father.  *  Sending  a 
boy  there,  brought  up  as  he  had  been,  without  the  least  tendency  to 
deceit — ' 

Here  no  one  could  see  Norman's  burning  cheeks,  and  brow  bent 
downwards  in  the  effort  to  keep  back  an  indignant  reply,  without 
bursting  out  in  exculpation;  and  Richard  looked  up,  while  the 
three  sisters  all  at  once  began, '  0  no,  no,  papa — '  and  left  Margaret 
to  finish — '  Poor  little  Tom  had  not  always  been  quite  sincere.' 

'  Indeed !  and  why  was  I  left  to  send  him  to  school  without 
knowing  it  ?     The  place  of  all  others  to  foster  deceit.' 

'  It  was  my  fault,  papa,',  said  Margaret. 

'  And  mine,'  put  in  Kichard ;  and  she  continued,  '  Ethel  told  us 
we  were  very  wrong,  and  I  wish  we  had  followed  her  advice.  It 
was  by  far  the  best  but  we  were  afraid  of  vexing  you.' 

'  Everyone  seems  to  have  been  combined  to  hide  what  they 
ought  not ! '  said  Dr.  May,  though  speaking  to  her  much  more  softly 
than  to  Norman,  to  whom  he  turned  angrily  again.  '  Pray  how 
came  you  not  to  identify  this  paper  ?  ' 

'  I  did  not  know  it,'  said  Norman,  speaking  with  difficulty. 

'  He  ought  never  to  have  been  sent  to  school,'  said  the  Doctor, 
— '  that  tendency  was  the  very  worst  beginning.' 

'  It  was  a  great  pity ;  I  was  very  wrong,'  said  Margaret,  in 
great  concern. 

'  I  did  not  mean  to  blame  you,  my  dear,'  said  her  father,  affec- 
tionately. '  I  kno-vfr  you  only  meant  to  act  for  the  best,  but — '  and 
he  put  his  hand  over  his  face,  and  then  came  the  sighing  groan, 
which  pained  Margaret  ten  thousand  times  more  than  reproaches, 
ind  which,  in  an  instant,  dispersed  all  the  indignation  burning 
within  Norman,  though  the  pain  remained  at  his  father's  thinking 


184  Tira   DAISY   CHAIN. 

him  guilty  of  neglect,  but  ho  did  not  like,  at  that  moment,  to  spcal; 
in  iSelf-justification. 

After  a  short  space,  Dr.  May  desired  to  hear  what  were  the  de- 
ceptions to  which  Margaret  had  alluded,  and  made  Norman  tell 
what  ho  knew  of  the  afiair  of  the  blotted  book.  Ethel  spoke  hope- 
fully when  she  had  heard  it.  *  Well,  do  you  know,  I  think  he  will 
do  better  now.  You  sec,  Edward  made  him  conceal  it,  and  he  has 
been  going  on  with  it  on  his  mind,  and  in  that  boy's  power  ever 
since ;  but  now  it  is  cleared  up  and  confessed,  he  will  begin  afresh 
and  do  better.     Don't  you  think  so,  Norman  ?  don't  you,  papa  ?  ' 

*  I  should  have  more  hope,  if  I  had  seen  anything  like  confession 
or  repentance,' said  Dr.  May;  'but  that  provoked  me  more  than 
all — I  could  only  perceive  that  he  was  sorry  to  be  found  out,  and 
afraid  of  punishment.' 

'  Perhaps,  when  he  has  recovered  the  first  fright,  }ie  will  como 
to  his  better  self,'  said  Margaret;  for  she  guessed,  what  indeed  was 
the  case,  that  the  Doctor's  anger  on  this  first  shock  of  the  discovery 
of  the  fault,  he  most  abhorred,  had  been  so  great,  that  a  fearful 
cowering  spirit  would  be  completely  overwhelmed ;  and,  as  ther-c 
,had  been  no  sorrow  shown  for  the  fault,  there  had  been  none  ol 
that  softening  and  relenting  that  won  so  much  love  and  coufi 
dence. 

Everyone  felt  that  talking  only  made  them  more  unhappy,  they 
tried  to  return  to  their  occupations,  and  so  passed  the  time  till  night. 
Then,  as  Richard  was  carrying  Margaret  upstairs,  Norman  lingered 
to  say,  '  Papa,  I  am  very  sorry  you  should  think  I  neglected  Tom. 
I  dare  say  I  might  have  done  better  for  him,  but,  indeed,  I  have  tried. 

'  I  am  sure  you  have,  Norman.  I  spoke  hastily,  my  boy — you 
will  not  think  more  of  it.  When  a  thing  like  this  comes  on  a  man, 
he  hardl}'^  knows  what  he  says.' 

*  II  Harry  were  here,'  said  Norman,  anxious  to  turn  from  the 
real  loss  and  grief,  as  well  as  to  talk  away  that  feeling  of  being 
apologized  to,  '  it  would  all  do  better.  He  would  make  a  link  with 
Tom,  but  I  have  so  little,  naturally,  to  do  with  the  second  form, 
that  it  is  not  ea.«y  to  keep  him  in  sight.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that  very  well.  It  is  no  one's  fault  but  my 
own;  I  should  not  have  sent  him  there  without  knowing  him  better. 
But  you  see  how  it  is,  Norman — I  have  trusted  to  her,  till  I  have 
grown  neglectful,  and  it  is  well  if  it  is  not  tho  ruin  of  him  !  ' 

'  Perhaps  he  will  take  a  turn,  as  Ethel  says,'  answered  Norman, 
cheerfully.     '  Good  night,  papa.' 

'  I  have  a  blessing  to  be  thankful  for  in  you,  at  least,'  murmured 
the  Doctor  to  himself.  '  AVhat  other  young  fellow  of  that  age  and 
spirit  would  have  borne  so  patiently  with  my  injustice  ?  Not  I,  I 
uni  sure  !  a  fine  father  I  show  myself  to  these  poor  children — neg- 
lect, helplessness,  temper — 0  Maggie  !  ' 

Margaret  had  so  bad  a  headache,  the  next  day,  that  she  could 


THE   DAISY   CHAIK.  185 

not  come  down  stairs.  The  punishment  was,  they  heard,  a  flogging 
at  the  time,  and  an  imposition  so  long,  that  it  was  likely  to  occupy 
a  large  portion  of  the  play-hours  till  the  end  of  the  half  year. 
His  father  said,  and  Norman  silently  agreed,  '  a  very  good  thing,  it 
will  keep  him  out  of  mischief;'  but  Margaret  only  wished  she  could 
learn  it  for  him,  and  took  upon  herself  all  the  blame  from  beginning 
to  end.  She  said  little  to  her  father,  for  it  distressed  him  to  see 
her  grieved ;  he  desired  her  not  to  dwell  on  the  subject,  caressed 
her,  called  her  his  aomfort  and  support,  and  did  all  he  could  to 
console  her,  but  it  was  beyond  his  power ;  her  sisters,  by  listening 
to  her,  only  made  her  worse.  '  Dear,  dear  papa,'  she  exclaimed, 
'  how  kind  he  is  !  But  he  can  never  depend  upon  me  again — I  have 
been  the  ruin  of  my  poor  little  Tom.' 

'  Well,'  said  Richard,  quietly,  '  I  can't  see  why  you  should  put 
yourself  into  such  a  state  about  it.' 

This  took  Margaret  by  surprise.'  Have  not  I  done  very  wrong, 
and  perhaps  hurt  Tom  for  life  ?  ' 

'  I  hope  not,'  said  Richard.  '  You  and  I  made  a  mistake,  but 
it  does  not  follow  that  Tom  would  have  kept  out  of  this  scrape,  if 
we  had  told  my  father  our  notion.' 

'  It  would  not  have  been  on  my  conscience,'  said  Margaret — 
*  he  would  not  have  sent  him  to  school.' 

'  I  don't  know  that,'  "said  Richard,  '  At  any  rate  we  meant  to 
do  right,  and  only  made  a  mistake.  It  was  unfortunate,  but  I  can't 
tell  why  you  go  and  make  yourself  ill,  by  fancying  it  worse  than  it 
is.  The  boy  has  done  very  wrong,  but  people  get  cured  of  such 
things  in  time,  and  it  is  nonsense  to  fret  as  if  he  were  not  a  mere 
child  of  eight  years  old.     You  did  not  teach  him  deceit.' 

'  No,  but  I  concealed  it — papa  is  disappointed,  when  he  thought 
he  could  trust  me.' 

'  Well !  I  suppose  no  one  could  expect  never  to  make  mistakes,' 
said  Richard,  in  his  sober  tone. 

'  Self-sufficiency  ! '  exclaimed  Margaret, '  that  has  been  the  root 
of  all !  Do  you  know,  Ritchie,  I  believe  I  was  expecting  that  I 
could  always  judge  rightly.' 

*  You  generally  do,'  said  Richard ;  '  no  one  else  could  do  half 
what  you  do.' 

'  So  you  have  said,  papa,  and  all  of  you,  till  you  have  spoilt  me. 
I  have  thought  it  myself,  Ritchie.' 

'  It  is  true,'  said  Richard. 

'  But  then,  said  Margaret,  '  I  have  grown  to  think  much  of  it, 
and  not  like  to  be  interfered  with.  I  thought  I  could  manage  by 
myself,  and  when  I  said  I  would  not  worry  papa,  it  was  half  be- 
cause I  liked  the  doing  and  settling  all  about  the  children  myself.  Oh  ! 
if  it  could  have  been  visited  in  any  way  but  by  poor  Tom's  faults  ! ' 

'  Well,'  said  Richard, '  if  you  felt  so,  it  was  a  pity,  though  I  never 
should  have  guessed  it.    But  you  see  you  will  never  feel  so  again,  and 


1S6  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

as  Tom  is  only  cue,  and  there  are  nine  to  govern,  it  is  all  for  tha 
best.' 

His  deliberate  common  sense  made  her  laugh  a  little,  and  she 
owned  he  might  be  right.  'It  is  a  good  lesson  against  my  love  of 
being  first.  But  indeed  it  is  difficult — papa  can  so  little  bear  to 
be  harassed,' 

'  He  could  n  )t  at  first,  but  now  he  is  strong  and  well,  it  is  different.' 

'  He  looks  terribly  thin  and  worn  still,'  sighed  Margaret,  '  bo 
much  older ! ' 

'  Aye,  I  think  he  will  never  get  back  his  young  looks  ;  but  ex- 
cept his  weak  arm,  he  is  quite  well.' 

'  And  then  his — his  quick  way  of  speaking  may  do  harm.' 

'  Yes,  that  was  what  I  feared  for  Tom,'  said  Richard, '  and  there 
was  the  mistake.  I  see  it  now.  My  father  always  is  right  in  the 
main,  though  he  is  apt  to  frighten  one  at  first,  and  it  is  what  ought 
to  be,  that  he  should  rule  his  own  house.  But  now,  Margaret,  it  is  silly 
to  worry  about  it  any  more — let  me  fetch  baby,  and  don't  think  of  it.' 

And  Margaret  allowed  his  reasonableness,  and  let  herself  be 
comforted.  After  all,  Richard's  solid  soberness  had  more  influenco 
over  her  than  anything  else. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

'Think  how  simplo  things  and  lowly, 
Have  a  part  in  Nature's  plan, 
How  the  great  hath  small  beginnlngii, 

And  the  child  will  be  a  man. 
Little  efforts  work  groat  actions. 

Lessons  in  our  childhood  taught 
Mould  the  sjiirit  and  the  temper 

Whereby  blessed  deeds  are  wrought 
Cherisli,  then,  the  gifts  of  childhood, 
^  l'.«e  them  gently,  guard  them  well, 
Fi>r  their  future  growth  and  greatness 
Who  can  mcisure,  who  can  tell! ' 

MoiiAL  Songs. 

The  first  shock  of  Tom's  misdemeanor  passed  away,  though  it  still 
gave  many  an  anxious  thouglit  to  such  of  the  family  as  felt  respon- 
sible for  him. 

The  girls  were  busily  engaged  in  preparing  an  Easter  feast  for 
Cocksmoor.  Mr.  Wilmot  was  to  examine  the  scholars,  and  buns  and 
tea  were  provided,  in  addition  to  which  Ethel  designed  to  make  a 
present  to  everyone— a  great  task,  considering  that  the  Cocksmoor 
funds  were  reserved  for  absolute  necessaries,  aud  were  at  a  very  low 
ebb.     So  that  twenty-five  gifts  were  to  be  composed  out  of  nothing  ! 

There  was  a  grand  turn-out  of  drawers  of  rubbish,  all  over 
Margaret,  raising  such  a  cloud  of  dust,  as  nearly  choked  her.  What 
cannot  rubbish  aud  willing  hands  cfl'ect !  Envelopes  and  wafer 
boxes  were  ornamented  with  pictures,  bags,  needle-cases,  and  pin 


TILE   DAIS.Y    CIIAIX.  187 

cushions,  beautiful  balls,  tippets,  both  of  list  and  gay  print,  and 
even  sun-bonnets  and  pinafores  were  contrived,  to  the  supreme  im 
portance  and  delight  of  Mary  and  Blanche,  who  found  it  as  good 
or  better  than  play,  and  ranged  their  performances  in  rows,  till  the 
room  looked  liked  a  bazaar.  To  provide  for  boys  was  more  diffi- 
cult ;  but  Richard  mended  old  toys,  and  repaired  the  frames  of 
slates,  and  Norman's  contribution  of  half-a-crown  bought  mugs, 
marbles,  and  penny  knives,  and  there  were  even  hopes  that  some- 
thing would  remain  for  bodkins,  to  serve  as  nozzles  to  the  bellows, 
which  were  the  pride  of  Blanche's  heart. 

Never  were  Easter  gifts  the  source  of  more  pleasure  to  the 
givers,  especially  when  the  nursery  establishment  met  Dr.  Hoxton 
near  the  pastry-cook's  shop,  and  he  bestowed  on  Blanche  a  packet, 
of  variegated  sugar-plums,  all  of  which  she  literally  poured  out  at 
EtheFs  feet,  saying,  '  I  don't  want  them.  Only  let  me  have  one  for 
Aubrey,  because  h'e  is  so  little.  All  the  rest  are  for  the  poor  chil- 
dren on  Cocksmoor.' 

After  this,  Margaret  declared  that  Blanche  must  be  allowed  to 
buy  the  bodkins,  and  give  her  bellows  to  Jane  Taylor,  the  only 
Cocksmoor  child  she  knew,  and  to  whom  she  always  destined  in 
turn  every  gift  that  she  thought  most  successful. 

So  Blanche  went  with  Flora  to  the  toy-shop,  and  there  fell  in 
love  with  a  little  writing-box,  that  so  eclipsed  the  bellows,  that  she 
tried  to  persuade  Flora  to  buy  it  for  Jane  Taylor,  to  be  kept  till 
she  could  write,  and  was  much  disappointed  to  hear  that  it  was  out 
of  the  question.  Just  then,  a  carriage  stopped,  and  from  it  stepped 
the  pretty  little  figure  of  Meta  Kivers. 

'  Oh  !  how  do  you  ?  How  delightful  to  meet  you !  I  was  wonder- 
ing if  we  should  !  Little  Blanche  too  ! '  kissing  her,  '  and  here's 
Mrs.  Larpent — Mrs.  Larpent — Miss  Flora  May.    How  is  Miss  May  ? ' 

This  was  all  uttered  in  eager  delight,  and  Fbra,  equally  pleased, 
answered  the  inquiries.  '  I  hope  you  are  not  in  a  hurry,'  proceeded 
Meta,  '  I  want  your  advice.  You  know  all  about  schools,  don't 
you  ?  I  am  come  to  get  some  Easter  presents  for  our  children, 
and  I  am  sure  you  can  help  me.' 

'  Are  the  children  little  or  big  ?  '  asked  Flora. 

'  Oh  !  all  sorts  and  sizes.  I  have  some  books  for  the  great  sen- 
sible ones,  and  some  stockings  and  shoes  for  the  tiresome  stupid  ones, 
but  there  are  some  dear  little  pets  that  I  want  nice  things  for. 
There — there's  a  doll  that  looks  just  fit  for  little  curly-headed 
Annie  Langley,  don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Larpent  ? ' 

The  price  of  the  doll  was  a  shilling,  and  there  were  quickly 
idded  to  it,  boxes  of  toys,  elaborate  bead- work  pincushions,  polished 
blue  and  green  boxes,  the  identical  writing-case — even  a  small 
Noah's  ark.  Meta  hardly  asked  the  prices,  which  certainly  were 
not  extravagant,  since  she  had  nearly  twenty  articles  for  little  more 
than  a  pound 


188  THE   DAISY   CliAIN. 

'  Papa  has  given  me  a  benefaction  of  £5  for  my  school-gifts, 
Eaid  she,  '  is  not  that  charming  ?  I  wish  you  would  come  to  the 
feast.     Now  do  !  It  is  on  Easter  Tuesday.     Won't  you  come  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you,  I  am  afraid  we  can't.    I  should  like  it  very  much. 

'  You  never  will  come  to  me.     You  have  no  compassion.' 

'  "We  should  enjoy  coming  very  much.  Perhaps,  in  the  summer, 
when  Margaret  is  better.' 

'  Could  not  she  spare  any  of  you  ?  Well,  I  shall  talk  to  papa, 
and  make  him  talk  to  Dr.  May.  Mrs.  Larpent  will  tell  you  I  al- 
waj's  get  my  way.     Don't  I  ?     Good-bye.     See  if  I  don't.' 

She  departed,  and  Flora  returned  to  her  own  business;  but 
Blanche's  interest  was  gone.  Dazzled  by  the  more  lavish  gifts,  she 
looked  listlessly  and  disdainfully  at  bodkins  three  for  twopence.  *I 
wish  I  might  have  bought  the  writing-box  for  Jane  Taylor  !  Why 
does  not  papa  give  us  money  to  get  pretty  things  for  the  children  ? 
said  she,  as  soon  as  they  came  out. 

'Jkcause  he  is  not  so  rich  as  Miss  Rivcrs's  papa.' — Flora  was 
interrupted  by  meeting  the  Miss  Andersons,  who  asked,  '  Was  not 
that  carriage  Mr.  llivers's  of  Abbotstoke  Grange  ?  ' 

*  Yes.  We  like  Miss  Rivers  very  much,'  said  Flora,  resolved  to 
show  that  she  was  acquainted. 

'  Oh  !  do  you  visit  her  ?  I  knew  he  was  a  patient  of  Dr.  May.' 
Flora  thought  there  was  no  need  to  tell  that  the  only  call  had  been 
owing  to  the  rain,  and  continued,  '  She  has  been  begging  us  to  como 
to  her  school  feast,  but  I  do  not  think  we  can  manage  it.' 

'  Oh !  indeed,  the  Grange  is  very  beautiful,  is  it  not  ? ' 

'  Very,' said  Flora.     '  Good  morning.' 

Flora  had  a  little  uneasiness  in  her  conscience,  but  it  was  satis- 
factory to  have  put  down  Louisa  Anderson,  who  never  could  aspire 
to  an  intimacy  with  Miss  Rivers.  Her  little  sister  looked  up — 
'  Why,  Flora,  have  you  seen  the  Grange  ?  ' 

*  No,  but  papa  and  Norman  said  so.' 

And  Blanche  showed  tnat  the  practical  lesson  on  the  pomps  of 
the  world  was  not  lost  on  her,  by  beginning  to  wish  they  were  as 
rich  as  Miss  Rivers.  Flora  told  her  it  was  wrong  to  be  discontented, 
but  the  answer  was,  '  I  don't  want  it  for  myself,  I  want  to  have 
pretty  things  to  give  away.' 

And  her  mind  could  not  be  turned  from  the  thought  by  any  at- 
tempt of  her  sister.  Even  when  they  met  Dr.  May  coming  out  of  the 
hospital,  Blanche  renewed  the  subject.  She  poured  out  the  cata- 
logue of  Miss  Rivcrs's  purchases,  making  appealing  attempts  at 
looking  under  his  spectacles  into  his  eyes,  and  he  perfectly  under- 
stood the  tenor  of  her  song. 

'  I  have  had  a  sight,  too,  of  little  maidens  preparing  Easter  gifts, 
eaid  he. 

'  Have  you,  papa  ?  What  were  they  ?  Were  they  as  nice  ai 
Miss  Rivcrs's  ? ' 


THE   DAISY   CHAXN".  189 

'  I  don't  know,  but  I  thought  they  were  the  best  sort  of  gifts,  for 
E  saw  that  plenty  of  kind  thought  and  clever  contrivance  went  to 
them,  aye,  and  some  little  self-denial  too.' 

'  Papa,  you  look  as  if  you  meant  something;  but  ours  are  nothing 
but  nasty  old  rubbish.' 

'  Perhaps  some  fairy,  or  something  better,  has  brought  a  wand  to 
touch  the  rubbish,  Blanche  ;  for  I  think  that  the  maidens  gave  what 
would  have  been  worthless  kept,  but  became  precious  as  they  gave 
it.' 

'  Do  you  mean  the  list  of  our  flannel  petticoats,  papa,  that  Mary 
Las  made  into  a  tippet  ?  ' 

'  Perhaps  I  meant  Mary's  own  time  and  pains,  as  well  as  the 
tippet.     Would  she  have  done  much  good  with  them  otherwise  ?  ' 

'  No,  she  would  have  played.  Oh  !  then,  you  like  the  presents 
because  they  are  our  own  making  ?  I  never  thought  of  that.  "Was 
that  the  reason  you  did  not  give  us  any  of  your  sovereigns  to  buy 
things  with  ? ' 

'  Perhaps  I  want  my  sovereigns  for  the  eleven  gaping  mouths  at 
home,  Blanche.  But  would  not  it  be  a  pity  to  spoil  your  pleasure  ? 
You  would  have  lost  all  the  chattering  and  laughing  and  buzzing 
I  have  heard  round  Margaret  of  late,  and  I  am  quite  sure  Miss  Rivers 
can  hardly  be  as  happy  in  the  gifts  that  cost  her  nothing,  as  one 
little  girl  who  gives  her  sugar-plums  out  of  her  own  mouth  ! ' 

Blanche  clasped  her  papa's  hand  tight,  and  bounded  five  or  six 
times.  '  They  are  our  presents,  not  yours,'  said  she.  '  Yes,  I  see. 
I  like  them  better  now.' 

'  Aye,  aye,'  said  the  Doctor.  '  Seeing  Miss  Piivers's  must  not 
take  the  shine  out  of  yours,  my  little  maids ;  for  if  you  can't  give 
much,  you  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  the  best  of  all,  your  labour 
of  love.'  Then  thinking  on,  and  speaking  to  Flora,  '  The  longer  I 
live,  the  more  I  see  the  blessing  of  being  born  in  a  state  of  life  where 
y^u  can':  both  eat  your  cake  and  give  it  away.' 

Flora  never  was  at  ease  in  a  conversation  with  her  father ;  she 
could  not  follow  him,  and  did  not  like  to  show  it.  She  answered 
aside  from  the  mark,  '  You  would  not  have  Blanche  underrate 
Miss  Rivers  ? ' 

'  No,  indeed,  she  is  as  good  and  sweet  a  creature  as  ever  came 
across  me — most  kind  to  Margaret,  and  loving  to  all  the  world.  I 
like  to  see  one  whom  care  and  grief  have  never  set  their  grip  upon. 
Most  likely  she  would  do  like  Ethel,  if  she  had  the  opportunity,  but 
she  has  not.' 

'  So  she  has  not  the  same  merit  ?  '  said  Flora. 

'  We  don't  talk  of  merit.  I  meant  that  the  power  of  sacrifice  is 
a  great  advantage.  The  habit  of  small  sacrifice  that  is  made  neces- 
sary in  a  large  family  is  a  discipline  that  only  children  are  without  \ 
and  so,  with  regard  to  wealth,  I  think  people  are  to  be  pitied  who 


190"  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

can  give  extensively  out  of  such  abundance  that  tlioy  can  hardly  feel 
the  want.' 

'  In  effect,  they  can  do  much  more,'  said  Flora. 

'  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  They  can,  of  course,  but  it  must  be  at 
the  cost  of  personal  labour  and  sacrifice.  I  have  often  thought  of 
the  words,  "  Silver  and  gold  have  I  none,  but  such  as  I  have  give  I 
thee."  And  such  aswc  have  it  is  that  does  the  good ;  the  gold,  if 
we  have  it,  but,  at  any  rate,  the  personal  influence ;  the  very  proof 
of  sincerity,  shown  by  the  exertion  and  self-denial,  tells  far  more 
than  money  lightly  come  by,  lightly  spent.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  a  person  who  maintained  a  whole  school  would 
do  less  good  than  one  who  taught  one  child '? ' 

'  If  the  rich  person  take  no  pains,  and  leave  the  school  to  take 
care  of  itself — nay,  if  he  only  visit  it  now  and  then,  and  never  let  it 
inconvenience  him,  has  he  the  least  security  that  the  scholars  are 
obtaining  any  real  good  from  it  ?  If  the  teacher  of  the  one  child  is 
doing  his  utmost,  he  is  working  for  himself  at  least' 

'  Suppose  we  could  build,  say  our  Church  and  school,  on  Cocks- 
moor  at  once,  and  give  our  superintendence  besides  ?  ' 

'  If  things  were  ripe  for  it,  the  means  would  come.  As  it  is,  it 
is  a  fine  field  for  Ethel  and  Ricliard.  I  believe  it  will  be  the  making 
of  them  both.  I  am  sure  it  is  training  Ethel,  or  making  her  train 
her.self,  as  we  could  never  have  done  without  it.  But  here,  come  in 
and  see  old  Mrs.  Robins.     A  visit  from  you  will  cheer  her  up.' 

Flora  was  glad  of  the  interruption,  the  conversation  was  uncom- 
fortable to  her.  She  almost  fancied  her  papa  was  moralizing  for 
their  good,  but  that  he  carried  it  too  far,  for  wealthy  people  assuredly 
had  it  in  their  power  to  do  great  things,  and  might  work  as  hard 
themselves;  besides,  it  was  finer  in  them,  there  was  so  much  ccZa^  in 
their  stooping  to  charity.  But  her  knowledge  of  his  character  would 
not  allow  her  to  think  for  a  moment  that  he  could  say  aught  but 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart — no,  it  was  one  of  his  one-sided  views 
that  led  him  into  paradox.  '  It  was  just  like  papa,'  and  so  there  was 
no  need  to  attend  t?  it.  It  was  one  of  his  enthusiasms,  he  was  so 
very  fond  of  Ethel,  probably  because  of  her  likeness  to  himself 
Flora  thought  Ethel  put  almost  too  forward — they  all  helped  at 
Cocksmoor,  and  Ethel  was  very  queer  and  unformed,  and  could  do 
nothing  by  herself  The  only  thing  Flora  did  keep  in  her  mind  was, 
that  her  papa  had  spoken  to  her,  as  if  she  were  a  woman  compared 
with  Ethel. 

Little  Blanche  made  her  report  of  the  conversation  to  Mary, 
'  that  it  was  so  nice ;  and  now  she  did  not  care  about  Miss  P^ivers'a 
fine  presents  at  all,  for  papa  said  what  one  made  one's  self  was  better 
to  give  than  what  one  bought.  And  papa  said,  too,  that  it  was  a 
{rood  thing  not  to  be  rich,  for  then  one  never  felt  the  miss  of  what 
one  gave  awaj'.' 

Margaret,  who  overheard  the  exposition,  thought  it  .so  much  tc 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  19] 

Blanche's  credit,  that  she  could  not  help  repeating  it  in  the  evening, 
after  the  little  girl  was  gone  to  bed,  when  Mr.  Wilmot  had  come  in 
to  arrange  the  programme  for  Cocksmoor.  So  the  little  fit  of  dis- 
content and  its  occasion,  the  meeting  with  Meta  Rivers,  were  dis- 
cussed. 

'  Yes,'  said  Mr.  "Wilmot,  '  those  Riverses  are  open-handed.  They 
really  seem  to  have  so  much  money,  that  they  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  it.  My  brother  is  ready  to  complain  that  they  spoil  his 
parish.  It  is  all  meant  so  well,  and  they  are  so  kind-hearted  and 
excellent,  that  it  is  a  shame  to  find  fault,  and  I  tell  Charles  and  his 
wife  that  their  grumbling  at  such  a  squire  proves  them  the  most 
spoilt  of  all.' 

'  Indiscriminate  liberality  ?  '  asked  the  Doctor.  '  I  should  guess 
the  old  gentleman  to  be  rather  soft ! ' 

'  That's  one  thing.  The  parish  is  so  small,  and  there  are  so  few 
to  shower  all  this  bounty  on,  and  they  are  so  utterly  unused  to  coun- 
try people.  They  seem  to  think  by  laying  out  money  they  can  get 
a  show  set  of  peasants  in  rustic  cottages,  just  as  they  have  their  fancy 
cows  and  poultry — all  that  offends  the  eye  out  of  the  way.' 

'  Making  it  a  matter  of  taste,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  I'm  sure  I  would,'  said  Norman  aside  to  Ethel.  '  What's  the 
use  of  getting  one's  self  disgusted  ?  ' 

'  One  must  not  begin  with  showing  dislike,'  began  Ethel,  '  or — ' 

'  Aye — you  like  rags,  don't  you  ?  but  hush.' 

'  That  is  just  what  I  should  expect  of  Mr.  Rivers,'  said  Dr.  May ; 
'  he  has  cultivated  his  taste  till  it  is  getting  to  be  a  disease,  but  his 
daughter  has  no  lack  of  wit.' 

'  Perhaps  not.  Charles  and  Mary  are  very  fond  of  her,  but  she 
is  entirely  inexperienced,  and  that  is  a  serious  thing  with  so  much 
money  to  throw  about.  She  pays  people  for  sending  their  children 
to  school,  and  keeping  their  houses  tidy  ;  and  there  is  so  much  given 
away,  that  it  is  enough  to  take  away  all  independence  and  motive 
for  exertion.  The  people  speculate  on  it,  and  take  it  as  a  right ;  by- 
and-by  there  will  be  a  re-action — she  will  find  out  she  is  imposed 
upon,  take  offence,  and  for  the  rest  of  her  life  will  go  about  saying 
how  ungrateful  the  poor  are  ! ' 

'  It  is  a  pity  good  people  won't  have  a  little  common  sense,'  said 
Dr.  May.  '  But  there's  something  so  bewitching  in  that  little  girl, 
that  I  can't  give  her  up      I  verily  believe  she  will  right  herself.' 

'  I  have  scarcely  seen  her,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot. 

'  She  has  won  papa's  heart  by  her  kindness  to  me,'  said  Margaret, 
smiling.  '  You  see  her  beautiful  flowers  ?  She  seems  to  me,  mado 
to  lavish  pleasures  on  others  wherever  she  goes.' 

'  0  yes,  they  are  most  kind-hearted,'  said  Mr.  Wilmot.  '  It  is 
only  the  excess  of  a  virtue  that  could  be  blamed  in  them,_  and  they 
are  most  valuable  to  the  place.  She  will  learn  experience  in  time— 
I  only  hope  she  will  not  be  spoilt.' 


192  THE   DAISY   ClIAm. 

Flora  felt  as  if  her  father  must  be  tbinking  bis  morning's  argu- 
ment confirmed,  and  sbe  was  annoyed.  But  she  tbougbt  there  was 
no  reason  why  wealth  should  not  be  used  sensibly,  and  if  she  were 
at  the  head  of  such  an  establishment  as  the  Grange,  her  charity  should 
bo  so  well  regulated  as  to  be  the  subject  of  general  approbation. 

She  wanted  to  find  some  one  else  on  her  side,  and,  as  they  went 
to  bed,  she  said  to  Ethel,  '  Don't  you  wish  we  had  some  of  this 
superfluity  of  the  Riverses  for  poor  Cocksmoor  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  we  had  any  thiyig  for  Cocksmoor  !  Here's  a  great  hole 
in  my  boot,  and  nurse  says  I  must  get  a  new  pair,  that  is  seven-and- 
sixpence  gone  !  I  shall  never  get  the  first  pound  made  up  towards 
building  !  ' 

'  And  pounds  seem  nothing  to  them,'  said  Flora. 

'  Yes,  but  if  they  don't  manage  right  with  them — I'll  tell  you, 
Flora,  I  got  into  a  fit  of  wishing  the  other  day ;  it  does  seem  such 
a  grievous  pity  to  see  those  children  running  to  waste  for  want  of 
daily  teaching,  and  Jenny  Hall  had  forgotten  everything.  I  was 
vexed,  and  thought  it  was  all  no  use  while  we  could  not  do  more ; 
but  just  then  I  began  to  look  out  the  texts  llitchie  had  marked  for 
me  to  print  for  them  to  learn,  and  the  first  was,  "  Be  thou  faithful 
over  a  few  things,  and  I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many  things," 
and  then  I  thought  perhaps  we  were  learning  to  be  faithful  with  a 
few  things.  I  am  sure  what  they  said  to-night  showed  it  was  lucky 
we  have  not  more  in  our  hands.  I  should  do  wrong  for  ever  with 
the  little  we  have  if  it  were  not  for  llitchie  and  Margaret.  By  the 
time  we  have  really  got  the  money  together  for  the  school,  perhaps 
I  shall  have  more  seuse.' 

'  Got  the  money  !     As  if  we  ever  could !  ' 

'  Oh,  yes !  we  shall  and  will.  It  need  not  be  more  than  £70, 
llitchie  says,  and  I  have  twelve  shillings  for  certain,  put  out  from 
the  money  for  hire  of  the  room,  and  the  books  and  clothes,  and, 
iu  spite  of  these  horrid  boots,  I  shall  save  something  out  of  this 
quarter,  half-a-crown  at  least.     And  I  have  another  plan  besides — ' 

But  Flora  had  to  go  down  to  Margaret's  room  to  bed.  F4ora 
was  always  ready  to  throw  herself  into  the  present,  and  liked  to  be 
the  most  useful  person  in  all  that  went  forward,  so  that  no  thoughts 
of  greatness  interfered  with  her  enjoyment  at  Cocksmoor. 

The  house  seemed  wild  that  Easter  Monday  morning.  Ethel, 
Mary,  and  Blanche,  flew  about  in  all  directions,  and  in  spite  of 
much  undoing  of  their  own  arrangements,  finished  their  prepara- 
tions so  much  too  early,  that  at  half-past  eleven,  Mary  complained 
that  she  had  nothing  to  do,  and  that  dinner  would  never  come. 

Many  were  the  lamentations  at  leaving  Margaret  behind,  but 
she  answered  them  by  talking  of  the  treat  of  having  papa  all  to 
herself,  for  he  had  lent  them  the  gig,  and  promised  to  stay  at  homo 
all  the  afternoon  with  her. 

The  first  division  started  on  foot  directly  after  dinner,  the  real 


TKE   DAISY    CHAIN.  193 

council  of  education,  as  Norman  called  them,  namely,  Mr.  "Wilmot, 
Richard,  Ethel,  and  Mary  ;  Flora,  the  other  member,  -waited  to  take 
care  of  Blanche  and  Aubrey,  who  were  to  come  in  the  gig,  with  the 
cakes,  tea-kettles,  and  prizes,  driven  by  Norman.  Tom  and  Hector 
Ernescliffe  were  invited  to  join  the  party,  and  many  times  did  Mary 
wish  for  Harry. 

Supremely  happy  were  the  young  people  as  they  reached  the 
common,  and  heard  the  shout  of  tumultuous  joy,  raised  by  their 
pupils,  who  were  on  the  watch  for  them.  All  was  now  activity. 
Everybody  trooped  into  Mrs.  Greene's  house,  while  Richard  and 
Ethel  ran  different  ways  to  secure  that  the  fires  were  burning,  which 
they  had  hired,  to  boil  their  kettles,  with  the  tea  in  them.  ° 

Then  when  the  kitchen  was  so  full  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  cculd 
hold  no  more,  some  kind  of  order  was  produced,  the  children  were 
seated  on  their  benches,  and  while  the  mothers  stood  behind  to  listen, 
Mr.  Wilmot  began  to  examine,  as  well  as  he  could  in  so  crowded  an 
audience. 

There  was  progress.  Yes,  there  was.  Only  three  were  as  utterly 
rude  and  idealess  as  they  used  to  be  at  Christmas.  Glimmerings 
had  dawned  on  most,  and  one — Una  M'Carthy — was  fit  to  come  for- 
ward to  claim  Mr.  Wilmot's  promise  of  a  Prayer-book.  She  could 
really  read  and  say  the  Catechism,  her  Irish  wit  and  love  of  learn- 
ing had  out-stripped  all  the  rest,  and  she  was  the  pride  of  Ethel's 
heart,  fit,  now,  to  present  herself  on  equal  terms  with  the  Stone- 
borough  set,  as  far  as  her  sense  was  concerned — though,  alas  !  neither 
present  nor  exhortation  had  succeeded  in  making  her  anything,  in 
looks,  but  a  picturesque  tatterdemalion,  her  sandy  elf  locks  stream- 
ing OA-er  a  pair  of  eyes,  so  dancing  and  gracieuses,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  scold  her. 

With  beating  heart,  as  if  her  own  success  in  life  depended  for 
ever  on  the  way  her  flock  acquitted  themselves,  Ethel  stood  by  Mr. 
Wilmot,  trying  to  read  answers  coming  out  of  the  dull  mouths  of 
her  children,  and  looking  exultingly  at  Richard  whenever  some  good 
reply  was  made,  especially  when  Una  answered  an  unexpected  ques- 
tion. It  was  too  delightful  to  hear  how  well  she  remembered  all 
the  history  up  to  the  flood,  and  how  prettily  it  came  out  in  her  Irish 
accent  !  That  made  up  for  all  the  atrocious  stupidity  of  others, 
who,  after  being  told  every  time  since  they  had  begun,  who  gave 
their  names,  now  chose  to  forget. 

In  the  midst,  while  the  assembly  were  listening  with  admiration 
to  the  reading  of  the  scholar  next  in  proficiency  to  Una,  a  boy,  who 
could  read  words  of  five  letters  without  spelling,  there  was  a  fresh 
squeezing  at  the  door,  and,  the  crowd  opening  as  well  as  it  could,  in 
came  Flora  and  Blanche,  while  Norman's  head  was  seen  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  doorway. 

Flora's  whisper  to  Ethel  was  her  first  discovery,  that  the  clos^- 
YoL.  I.— 9  ^  " 


10-1  THE    DAI&\'    CIIAIJr. 

ncss  and  heat  of  the  room  were  nearly  overpowering.     Her  excite* 
meiit  had  made  all  be  fori;ottt'u,     '  Could  not  a  window  be  opened  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Grceu  interfered — it  had  been  nailed  up  because  her  hus- 
band had  the  rheumatiz  ! 

'  Wlicre's  Aubrey  ?'  asked  Mary. 

'  ^Vith  Aorman.  Norman  said  he  would  not  let  him  go  into  the 
black-hole,  so  he  has  got  him  out  of  doors.  Ethel !  we  must  come  out ! 
You  don't  know  what  an  atmosphere  it  is.  Blanche,  go  out  to  Norman !' 

'  riora,  Flora  !  jou  don't  consider,'  said  Ethel  in  an  agony. 

'  Yes,  yes.  It  is  not  at  all  cold.  Lot  them  have  their  presents 
out  of  doons,  and  eat  their  buns.' 

Pilchard  and  Mr.  Wihnot  agreed  with  Flora,  and  the  party  were 
turned  out.  Ethel  did  own,  when  she  was  in  the  open  air,  '  that  it 
had  been  rather  hot.' 

Norman's  fiice  was  a  sight,  as  he  stood  holding  Aubrey  in  his 
arms,  to  gratify  the  child's  impatience.  The  stilling  don,  the 
uncouth  aspect  of  the  children,  the  head  girl  so  very  ragged  a 
specimen,  thoroughly  revolted  his  somewliat  fastidious  disposition. 
This  was  Ethel's  delight!  to  this  she  made  so  many  sacrifices !  this 
was  all  that  her  time  and  labour  had  effected  !  He  did  not  wish  to 
vex  her,  but  it  was  more  than  he  could  stand. 

However,  Ethel  was  too  much  engrossed  to  look  for  sympatliy. 
It  was  a  fine  spring  day,  and  on  the  open  space  of  the  commou  the 
arrangements  were  quickly  made.  The  children  stood  in  a  long  line, 
and  the  baskets  were  unpacked.  Flora  and  Ethel  called  the  names, 
Mary  and  Blanche  gave  the  presents,  and  assuredly  the  grins, 
courtesies,  and  pull  of  the  forelock  they  elicited,  could  not  have 
been  more  hearty  for  any  of  Miss  llivers's  treasures.  The  buns  and 
kettles  of  tea  followed — it  was  perfect  delight  to  entertainers  and 
entertained,  except  when  Mary's  dignity  was  cruelly  hurt  by  Nor- 
man's authoritatively  taking  a  kettle  out  of  her  hands,  telling  her 
she  would  be  the  death  of  herself  or  somebody  else,  and  reducing  her 
to  the  mere  rank  of  a  bun  distributor,  which  Blanche  and  Aubrey 
could  do  just  as  well ;  while  he  stalked  along  with  a  grave  and 
resigned  countenance,  filling  up  the  cups  held  out  to  him  by  timid- 
looking  children.  Mary  next  fell  in  with  Granny  Hall,  who  had 
gone  into  such  an  ecstasy  over  Blanche  and  Aubrey,  that  Blanche 
did  not  know  Avhich  way  to  look  ;  and  Aubrey,  in  some  fear  that 
the  old  woman  might  intend  to  kiss  him,  returned  the  eomplimeuts 
by  telling  lier  she  was  '  ugly  up  in  her  face,'  at  which  she  laughed 
heartily,  and  uttered  more  veliemeut  benedictions. 

Finally,  the  tiiree  l)eht  children,  boys  and  girls,  were  to  be  made 
fit  to  be  seen,  and  recommended  by  Mr.  \\'ilmot  to  the  Sunday- School 
and  penny-club  at  Stoneborough,  and,  this  being  proelainied,  and 
the  children  selected,  the  assembly  dispersed.  Mr.  Wilmot  rejoicing 
Ethel  and  lUchard,  by  saying,  ''  Well,  really,  you   have   made  a 


THE   DAISY   CHAIX.  195 

beginning ;   there  is  an  improvement  in  tone  among  tnose  cliUdren, 
that  is  more  satisfactory  than  any  progress  they  may  have  made.' 

Ethel's  eyes  beamed,  and  she  hurried  to  tell  Flora.  Richard 
coloured  and  gave  his.  quiet  smile,  then  turned  to  put  things  in 
order  for  their  return. 

'  Will  you  drive  home,  Richard  ? '  said  Norman,  coming  up  to  him. 

'  Don't  you  wish  it  ? '  said  Richard,  who  had  many  minor  arrange- 
ments to  make,  and  would  have  preferred  walking  home  independ- 
ently. 

'  No,  thank  you,  I  have  a  head-ache,  and  walking  may  take  it  off,' 
said  Xorman,  taking  off  his  hat  and  passing  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 

'  A  head-ache  again — I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.' 

'  It  is  only  that  suffocating  den  of  yours.  My  head  ached  from 
the  moment  I  looked  into  it.  How  can  you  take  Ethel  into  such  a 
hole,  Richard  ?     It  is  enough  to  kill  her  to  go  on  with  it  for  ever.' 

'  It  is  not  so  every  day,'  said  the  elder  brother  quietly.  '  It  is  a 
warm  day,  and  there  was  an  unusual  crowd.' 

'  I  shall  speak  to  my  father,'  exclaimed  Norman,  with  somewhat 
of  the  supercilious  tone  that  he  had  now  and  then  been  tempted  to 
address  to  his  brother.  '  It  is  not  fit  that  Ethel  should  give  up 
everything,  health  and  all,  to  such  a  set  as  these.  They  look  as  if 
they  had  been  picked  out  of  the  gutter — dirt,  squalor,  everything 
disgusting,  and  summer  coming  on,  too,  and  that  horrid  place  with 
no  window  to  open  !     It  is  utterly  unbearable  !  ' 

Richard  stooped  to  pick  up  a  heavy  basket,  then  smiled  and- 
said,  '  You  must  get  over  such  things  as  these  if  you  mean  to  be  a 
clergyman,  Norman.' 

'  Whatever  I  am  to  be,  it  does  not  concern  the  girls  being  in 
such  a  place  as  thi^.     I  am  surprised  that  you  could  suffer  it.' 

There  was  no  answer — Richard  was  walking  off  with  his  basket, 
and  putting  it  into  the  carriage.  Norman  was  not  pleased  with 
himself,  but  thought  it  his  duty  to  let  his  father  know  his  opinion 
of  Ethel's  weekly  resort.  All  he  wished  was  to  avoid  Ethel  herself, 
not  liking  to  show  her  his  sentiments,  and  he  was  glad  to  see  her 
put  into  the  gig  with  Aubrey  and  Mary. 

They  rushed  into  the  drawing-room,  full  of  glee,  when  they 
came  home,  all  shouting  their  news  together,  and  had  not  at  first 
leisure  to  perceive  that  Margaret  had  some  tidings  for  them  in  re- 
turn. Mr.  Rivers  had  been  there,  with  a  pressing  invitation  to  his 
daughter's  school-feast,  and  it  had  been  arranged  that  Flora  and 
Ethel  should  go  and  spend  the  day  at  the  Grange,  and  their  father 
come  to  dine,  and  fetch  them  home  in  the  evening.  Margaret  had 
been  much  pleased  with  the  manner  in  which  the  thing  was  done. 
When  Dr.  May,  who  seemed  reluctant  to  accept  the  proposal  that 
related  to  himself,  was  called  out  of  the  room,  Mr.  Rivers  had,  in  a 
most  kind  manner,  begged  her  to  say  whether  she  thought  it  would 
be  painful  to  him,  or  whether  it  might  do  his  gnirits  £:ood.     She 


I'JG  THi:    DAISY    CHAIN. 

decidedly  gave  her  opinion  in  favour  of  the  invitation,  Mr.  Rivers 
gained  his  point,  and  she  had  ever  since  been  persuading  her  father 
to  like  the  notion,  and  assuring  him  it  need  not  be  made  a  prece- 
dent for  the  renewal  of  invitations  to  dine  out  in  the  town.  He 
thought  the  cliange  would  be  pleasant  for  his  girls,  and  had,  there- 
fore, consented. 

*  0,  papa,  papa  !  thank  you  ! '  cried  Ethel,  enraptured,  as  soon 
as  ho  came  into  the  room.  '  How  very  kind  of  you  !  How  I  have 
wished  to  see  the  Grange,  and  all  Normau  talks  about !  Oh  dear ! 
I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  there  too  ! ' 

'  Why,  what  should  you  do  with  me  ? '  said  Dr.  May,  who  felt 
and  looked  depressed  at  this  taking  up  of  the  world  again. 

'  Oh  dear  !  I  should  not  like  it  at  all  without  you  !  It  would 
be  no  fun  at  all  by  ourselves.  I  wish  Flora  would  come  home.  How 
pleased  she  will  be  !  Papa  !  I  do  wish  you  would  look  as  if  you 
didn't  mind  it.     I  can't  enjoy  it  if  you  don't  like  going.' 

'  I  shall  when  I  am  there,  my  dear,'  said  the  Doctor,  affection- 
ately, putting  his  arm  around  her  as  she  stood  by  him.  '  It  will  be 
a  line  day's  sport  for  you.' 

*  But  can't  you  like  it  beforehand,  papa  ?  ' 

'  Not  just  this  minute,  Ethel,'  said  he,  with  his  bright  sad  smile. 
'  All  I  like  just  now,  is  my  girl's  not  being  able  to  do  without  me ; 
but  we'll  do  the  best  we  can — So  your  flock  acquitted  themselves 
brilliantly  ?     "Who  is  your  Senior  Wrangler  ?  ' 

Ethel  threw  herself  eagerly  into  the  history  of  the  examination, 
and  had  almost  forgotten  the  invitation  till  she  heard  the  front  door 
open.  Then  it  was  not  she,  but  Margaret,  who  told  Flora — Ethel 
could  not,  as  she  said,  enjoy  what  seemed  to  sadden  her  father. 
Flora  received  it  much  more  calmly.  '  It  will  be  very  pleasant,' 
said  she ;  '  it  was  very  kind  of  papa  to  consent.  You  will  have 
Richard  and  Norman,  Margaret,  to  be  with  you  in  the  evening.' 

And,  as  soon  as  they  went  up-stairs,  Ethel  began  to  write 
down  the  list  of  prizes  in  her  school  journal,  while  Flora  took  out 
the  best  evening  frocks,  to  study  whether  the  crape  looked  fresh 
enough. 

The  invitation  was  a  convenient  subject  of  conversation,  for 
Norman  hud  so  much  to  tell  his  sisters  of  the  curiosities  they  must 
look  for  at  the  Grange,  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  mention  Cocks- 
moor.  He  did  not  like  to  mortify  Ethel  by  telling  her  his  intense 
disgust,  and  he  knew  he  was  about  to  do  what  she  would  think  a 
great  injury  by  speaking  to  his  father  on  the  subject ;  but  ho 
thought  it  for  her  real  welfare,  and  took  the  first  opportunity  of 
making  to  his  father  and  Margaret  a  most  formidable  description  of 
Ethel's  black-hole.  It  quite  alarmed  Margaret,  but  the  Doctor 
smiled,  saying,  '  Aye,  aye,  I  know  the  face  Norman  puts  on  if  he 
looks  into  a  cottage.' 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  19? 

'  Well,'  said  Norman,  with  some  mortification,  '  all  I  know  is, 
(hat  my  head  ached  all  the  rest  of  the  day.' 

'  Very  likely,  but  your  head  is  not  Ethel's,  and  there  were  twice 
as  many  people  as  the  place  was  intended  to  hold.' 

*  A  stuffy  hole,  full  of  peat-smoke,  and  with  a  window  that  can't 
open  at  the  best  of  times.' 

'  Peat-smoke  is  wholesome,'  said  Dr.  May,  looking  provoking. 

*  You  don't  know  what  it  is,  papa,  or  you  would  never  let  Ethel 
spend  her  life  there.     It  is  poisonous  ! ' 

'  I'll  take  care  of  Ethel,'  said  Dr.  May,  walking  off,  and  leaving 
Norman  in  a  state  of  considerable  annoyance  at  being  thus  treated. 
He  broke  out  into  fresh  exclamations  against  the  horrors  of  Cocks- 
moor,  telling  Margaret  she  had  no  idea  what  a  den  it  was. 

'  But,  Norman,  it  can't  be  so  very  bad,  or  Richard  would  not 
allow  it.' 

'  Richard  is  deluded  ! '  said  Norman  ;  '  but  if  he  chooses  to  run 
after  dirty  brats,  why  should  he  take  Ethel  there  ? ' 

'  My  dear  Norman,  you  know  it  is  all  Ethel's  doing.' 

'  Yes,  I  know  she  has  gone  crazy  after  them,  and  given  up  all 
her  Greek  for  it.  It  is  past  endurance  ! '  said  Norman,  who  had 
worked  himself  up  into  great  indignation. 

'  Well,  but  surely,  Norman,  it  is  better  they  should  do  what  they 
can  for  those  poor  creatures,  than  for  Ethel  to  learn  Greek.' 

'  I  don't  know  that.  Let  those  who  are  fit  for  nothing  else  go 
and  drone  over  A,B,C,  with  ragged  children,  if  they  like.  It  is 
just  their  vocation ;  but  there  is  an  order  in  everything,  Margaret, 
and  minds  of  a  superior  kind  are  intended  for  higher  purposes,  not 
to  be  wasted  in  this  manner.' 

'  I  don't  know  whether  they  are  wasted  ! '  said  Margaret,  not 
quite  liking  Norman's  tone,  though  she  had  not  much  to  say  to  his 
arguments. 

'  Not  wasted  ?  Not  in  doing  what  anyone  can  do  ?  I  know 
what  you'll  say  about  the  poor.  I  grant  it,  but  high  ability  must 
be  given  for  a  purpose,  not  to  be  thrown  away.  It  is  common  sense, 
that  some  one  must  be  meant  to  do  the  dirty  work,' 

'  I  see  what  you  mean,  Norman,  but  I  don't  quite  like  that  to 
be  called  by  such  a  name.  I  think — '  she  hesitated.  '  Don't  you 
think  you  dislike  such  things  more  than — ' 

'  Anyone  must  abominate  dirt  and  slovenliness.  I  know  what 
you  mean.  My  father  thinks  'tis  all  nonsense  in  me,  but  his 
profession  has  made  him  insensible  to  such  things,  and  he  fan- 
cies everyone  else  is  the  same  !  Now,  Margaret,  am  I  unrea- 
sonable ? ' 

'  I  am  sure  I  don't,  know,  dear  Norman,'  said  Margaret,  hesi- 
tating, and  feeling  it  her  duty  to  say  something,  '  I  dare  say  it  was 
verj  disagreeable.' 

'  And  you  think,  too,  that  I  made  a  disturjjance  for  nothing  ? 


198  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

'  No,  indeed  I  don't,  nor  does  dear  papa.  I  have  no  doubt  he 
will  see  whether  it  is  proper  for  Ethel.  AH  I  think  he  meant  is, 
that  perhaps  your  not  being  well  last  winter,  has  made  you  a  little 
more  sensitive  in  such  things.' 

Norman  paused,  and  coloured.  He  remembered  the  pain  it  had 
given  him  to  find  himself  incapable  of  being  of  use  to  his  father, 
and  that  he  had  resolved  to  conquer  the  weakness  of  nerve  of  which 
ho  was  ashamed ;  but  he  did  not  like  to  connect  this  with  his 
fastidious  feelings  of  refinement.  He  would  not  own  to  himself  that 
they  were  over  nice,  and,  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  justification, 
rankled  Richard's  saying,  that  he  »rho  cared  for  such  things  was 
unfit  for  a  clergyman.  Norman's  secret  thought  was,  it  was  all 
very  well  for  those  who  could  only  aspire  to  parish  work  in  wretched 
cottages — ^^people  who  could  distinguish  themselves  were  more  useful 
at  the  University,  forming  minds,  and  opening  new  discoveries  in 
learning. 

AVas  Norman  quite  proof  against  the  consciousness  of  daily  ex- 
celling all  his  competitors  ?  His  superiority  had  become  even  more 
manifest  this  Easter,  when  Cheviot  and  Forder,  the  two  elder  boys 
whom  he  had  outstripped,  left  the  school,  avowedly,  because  it  was 
not  worth  while  for  them  to  stay,  since  they  had  so  little  chance  of 
the  Randall  scholarship.  Norman  had  now  only  to  walk  over  the 
course,  no  one  even  approaching  him  but  Harvey  Anderson. 

Meta  Rivers  always  said  that  fine  weather  came  at  her  call,  and 
so  it  did — glowing  sunslune  streaming  over  the  shaven  turf,  and 
penetrating  even  the  solid  masses  of  the  great  cedar. 

The  carriage  was  sent  for  the  Miss  Mays,  and,  at  two  o'clock, 
they  arrived.  Flora,  extremely  anxious  that  Ethel  should  comport 
herself  discreetly ;  and  Ethel  full  of  curiosity  and  eagerness,  the 
only  drawback,  her  fears  that  her  papa  was  doing  what  he  disliked. 
She  was  not  in  the  least  shy,  and  did  not  think  about  her  manner 
enough  to  be  troubled  by  the  consciousness  that  it  had  a  good  deal 
of  abruptness  and  eagerness,  and  that  her  short  sight  made  her 
awkward.  Meta  met  them  with  out-stretched  hands,  and  a  face 
beaming  with  welcome.  '  I  told  you  I  should  get  my  way  ! '  she 
said,  triumphantly,  and,  after  her  warm  greeting,  she  looked  with 
some  respect  at  the  face  of  the  Miss  May,  who  was  so  very  clever. 
It  certainly  was  not  what  she  expected,  not  at  all  like  either  of  the 
four  sisters  she  had  already  seen — brown,  sallow,  and  with  that 
sharp  long  nose,  and  the  eager  eyes,  and  brow  a  little  knit  by  the  de- 
sire to  see  as  far  as  she  could.     It  was  pleasanter  to  look  at  Flora. 

Ethel  left  the  talk  chiefly  to  Flora — there  was  wonder  and  study 
enough  for  her  in  the  grounds  and  garden,  and  when  Mrs.  Larpent 
tried  to  enter  into  conver.sation  with  her,  she  let  it  drop  two  or  three 
times,  while  she  was  peering  hard  at  a  picture,  and  trying  to  make 
out  its  subject.  However,  when  they  all  went  out  to  walk  to 
Church,  Ethel  lighted  up  and  talked,  admired,  and  asked  questions 


THE   DAISY   CnALX.  199 

U'.  her  quick,  eager  "vvay,  ■wliicli  interested  Mrs.  Larpent  greatly. 
The  governess  asked  after  Norman,  and  no  more  ■was  wanted  to 
produce  a  volume  of  histories  of  his  successes,  till  Flora  turned  as 
she  walked  before  with  Meta,  saying,  "  Why,  Ethel,  you  are  quite 
overwhelming  Mrs.  Larpent.' 

But  some  civil  answer  convinced  Ethel  that  what  she  said  was 
interesting,  and  she  would  not  be  stopped  in  her  account  of  their 
anxieties  on  the  day  of  the  examination.  Flora  was  pleased  that 
Meta,  catching  some  words,  begged  to  hear  more,  and  Flora  gave  an 
account  of  the  matter,  soberer  in  terms,  but  quietly  setting  Norman 
at  a  much  greater  distance  from  all  his  competitors. 

After  Church  came  the  feast  in  the  school.  It  was  a  large  com- 
modious building.  Meta  declared  it  was  very  tiresome  that  it  was 
so  good  inside,  it  was  so  ugly,  she  should  never  rest  till  papa  had 
built  her  a  real  beauty.  They  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Wilmofc 
in  the  school,  with  a  very  nice  well-dressed  set  of  boys  and  girls, 
and — but  there  is  no  need  to  describe  the  roast-beef  and  plum-pud- 
ding, 'the  feast  ate  merrily,'  and  Ethel  was  brilliantly  happy  wait- 
ing on  the  children,  and  so  was  sunny-hearted  Meta.  Flora  was 
too  busy  in  determining  what  the  Riverses  might  be  thinking  of  her 
and  her  sister  to  give  herself  up  to  the  enjoyment. 

Ethel  found  a  small  boy  looking  ready  to  cry  at  an  untouched 
slice  of  beef.  She  examined  him  whether  he  could  cut  it,  and  at 
last  discovered  that,  as  had  been  the  case  with  one  or  two  of  her 
own  brothers  at  the  same  age,  meat  was  repugnant  to  him.  In 
her  vehement  manner,  she  flew  off  to  fetch  him  some  puddinf,  and 
hurrying  up  as  she  tliought  to  Mr.  Charles  Wilmot,  who  had  been 
giving  out,  she  thrust  her  plate  between  him  and  the  dish,  and 
had  begun  her  explanation,  wlten  she  perceived  it  was  a  stranger, 
and  she  stood,  utterly  discomfited,  not  saying,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,' 
but  only  blushing,  awkward  and  confused,  as  he  spoke  to  her,  in 
a  good-natured,  hospitable  manner,  which  showed  her  it  must  be 
Mr.  Elvers.  She  obtained  her  pudding,  and,  turning  hastily, 
retreated. 

'  Meta,'  said  Mr,  Kivers,  as  his  daughter  came  out  of  the  school 
with  him,  for,  open  and  airy  as  it  was,  the  numbers  and  the  dinner 
made  him  regard  it  as  Norman  had  viewed  the  Cocksmoor  room, 
'  was  that  one  of  the  Miss  Mays  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  papa,  Ethel,  the  third,  the  clever  one.' 

'  I  thought  she  must  be  one  of  them  from  hor  dress ;  but  what 
I  difference  between  her  and  the  others !  ' 

Mr.  Rivers  was  a  great  admirer  of  beauty,  and  Meta,  brought  up 
to  be  the  same,  was  disappointed,  but  consoled  herself  by  admiring 
Flora,  Ethel,  aft^r  the  awkwardness  was  over,  thought  no  more  of 
the  matter,  but  went  on  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  feast.  The  eating 
finished,  the  making  of  presents  commenced,  and  choice  ones  they 
«rere.     The  smiles  of  Meta  and  of  the  children  were  a  pretty  sight. 


SOO  THE    DAISY   CHAIN. 

and  Ethel  thou/:5lit  she  had  never  f=ecu  anything  so  like  a  benefieent 
fairy.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wiliuot  gaid  their  words  of  counsel  and 
encouragement,  and,  by  five  o'clock,  all  was  over. 

*  Oh  !  1  am  sorry! '  said  Meta,  '  Easter  won't  come  again  for  o 
whole  year,  and  it  has  been  so  delightful.  How  that  dear  little 
Annie  smiled  and  nursed  her  doll !  I  wish  I  could  see  her  show  it 
to  her  mother  !  Oh  !  how  nice  it  is  !  I  am  so  glad  papa  brought 
me  to  live  in  the  country.  I  don't  think  anything  can  be  so  charm- 
ing in  all  the  world  as  seeing  little  children  happy  ! ' 

Ethel  could  not  thiuk  how  the  Wilmots  could  have  found  it  in 
their  heart  to  regret  the  liberality  of  this  sweet  damsel,  on  whont 
she  began  to  look  witli  Norman's  enthusiastic  admiration. 

There  was  time  for  a  walk  round  the  grounds,  Meta  doing  the 
honours  to  Flora,  and  Ethel  walking  with  Mrs.  Larpcnt.  Both 
pairs  were  vciy  good  friends,  aud  the  two  sisters  admired  and  were 
charmed  with  the  beauty  of  the  gardens  and  conservatories — Ethel 
laying  up  a  rich  store  of  intelligence  for  Margaret ;  but  still  she  was 
not  entirely  happy ;  lier  papa  was  more  and  more  on  her  mind.  lie 
had  looked  dispirited  at  breakfast ;  he  had  a  long  hard  day's  work 
before  him ;  and  she  was  increasingly  uneasy  at  the  thought  that  it 
would  be  a  painful  effort  to  him  to  join  them  in  the  evening.  Her 
mind  was  full  of  it  when  she  was  conducted,  with  Flora,  to  the 
room  where  they  were  to  dress ;  and  when  Flora  began  to  express 
her  delight,  her  answer  was  only  that  she  hoped  it  was  not  very 
unpleasant  to  papa. 

'  It  is  not  worth  while  to  be  unhappy  about  that,  Ethel.  If  it 
is  an  effort,  it  will  be  good  for  him  when  he  is  once  here.  I  know 
he  will  enjoy  it.' 

'  Yes,  I  should  think  he  would — I  hope  he  will.     He  must  like 
"^ou  to  have  such  a  friend  as  Miss  llivers.     How  pretty  she  is  ! ' 
'  Now,  Ethel,  it  is  high  time  to  dress.     Pray  make  yourself  look 
nice — ^^don't  twist  up  yDur  hair  in  that  any-how  fashion.' 

Ethel   sighed,  then   began  talking  fast  about  some   hints    on 
'  'school-keeping  which  she  had  picked  uji  for  Cocksmoor. 

Flora's  glossy  braids  were  in  full  order,  while  Ethel  was  still 
struggling  to  get  her  plait  smooth,  and  was  extremely  beholden  to 
her  sister  for  taking  it  into  her  own  hands,  and  doing  the  best  with 
it  that  its  thinness  and  roughness  permitted.  And  then  Flora 
pinched  and  pulled  and  arranged  Ethel's  frock,  in  vain  attempts  to 
make  it  sit  like  her  own — those  sharp  high  bones  resisted  all  at- 
tempts to  disgui.'^e  them.  '  Never  mind.  Flora,  it  is  quite  tidy,  I 
am  sure,  there — do  let  me  be  in  peace.  You  are  like  old  nurse.' 
'  So  those  are  all  the  thanks  I  get  ?  ' 

'  Well,  thank  you  very  much,  dear  Flora.  You  are  a  famous 
person.     How  I  wish  Margaret  could  see  that  lovely  mimosa  ! ' 

'  And,  Ethel,  do  take  care.  Pray  don't  poke  and  spy  when  you 
come  into  the  room,  and  don't  frown  wlien  you  are  trying  to  sec 


THE   DAISY    CHAIIS'.  201 

I  hope  you  won't  have  anything  to  help  at  dinner.  Take  care  how 
you  manage.' 

'  I'll  try,'  said  Ethel,  meekly,  though  a  good  deal  tormented,  as 
Flora  went  on  with  half-a-dozen  more  injunctions,  closed  by  Meta's 
coming  to  fetch  them.  Little  Meta  did  not  like  to  show  them  her 
own  bed-room — she  pitied  them  so  much  when  she  thought  of  the 
contrast.  She  would  have  liked  to  put  Flora's  arm  through  her's 
but  she  thought  it  would  look  neglectful  of  Ethel ;  so  she  only 
showed  the  way  down  stairs.  Ethel  forgot  all  her  sister's  orders  ; 
for  there  stood  her  father,  and  she  looked  most  earnestly  at  his  face. 
It  was  cheerful,  and  his  Toice  sounded  well-pleased  as  he  greeted 
Meta ;  then  resumed  an  animated  talk  with  Mr.  Elvers.  Ethel 
drew  as  near  him  as  she  could ;  she  had  a  sense  of  protection,  and 
could  open  to  full  enjoyment  when  she  saw  him  bright.  At  the 
first  pause  in  the  conversation,  the  gentlemen  turned  to  the  young 
ladies.  Mr.  Rivers  began  talking  to  Flora,  a^d  Dr.  May,  after  a 
few  pleasant  words  to  Meta,  went  back  to  Ethel.  He  wanted  her 
to  see  his  favourite  pictures — he  led  her  up  to  them,  made  her  put 
on  his  spectacles  to  see  them  better,  and  showed  her  their  special 
merits.  Mr.  Rivers  and  the  others  joined  them  ;  Ethel  said  little, 
except  a  remark  or  two  in  answer  to  her  papa,  but  she  was  very 
happy — she  felt  that  he  liked  to  have  her  with  him ;  and  Meta, 
too,  was  struck  by  the  soundness  of  her  few  sayings,  and  the  par- 
ticipation there  seemed  to  be  in  all  things  between  the  father  and 
daughter. 

At  dinner  Ethel  went  on  pretty  well.  She  was  next  to  her 
father,  and  was  very  glad  to  find  the  dinner  so  grand,  that  no  side- 
disk  fell  to  her  lot  to  be  carved.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
talk,  such  as  the  girls  could  understand,  though  they  did  not  join 
much  in  it,  except  that  now  and  then  Dr.  May  turned  to  Ethel  as  a 
reference  for  names  and  dates.  To  make  up  for  silence  at  dinner, 
there  was  a  most  confidential  chatter  in  the  drawing-room.  Flora 
and  Meta  on  one  side,  hand  in  hand,  calling  each  otlier  by  their 
Christian  names,  Mrs.  Larpent  and  Ethel  on  the  other.  Flora 
dreaded  only  that  Ethel  was  talking  too  much,  and  revealing  too 
much  in  how  difi"erent  style  they  lived.  Then  came  the  gentlemen, 
Dr.  May  begging  Mr.  Rivers  to  show  Ethel  one  of  his  prints,  when 
Ethel  stooped  more  than  ever,  as  if  her  eyelashes  were  feelers,  but 
she  was  in  transports  of  delight,  and  her  embarrassment  entirely  at 
an  end  in  her  admiration,  as  she  exclaimed  and  discussed  with  her 
papa,  and  by  her  hearty  appreciation  made  Mr.  Rivers  for  the 
time  forget  her  plainness.  Music  followed ;  Flora  played  nicely, 
Meta  like  a  well-taught  girl,  Ethel  went  on  musing  over  the  en- 
gravings. The  carriage  was  announced,  and  so  ended  the  day  in 
Norman's  fairy  land.  Ethel  went  home,  leaning  hard  against  her 
papa,  talking  to  him  of  Raftaelle's  Madonnas ;  and  looking  out  at 
the  stars,  and  thinking  how  the  heavenly  beauty  of  those  faces  that 
Vol.  I.— 9* 


202  TIIK    DAISY    CHAHN*. 

in  the  prints  she  had  been  turning  over,  seemed  to  be  connected 
with  the  glories  of  the  dark-blue  sky  and  glowing  stars.  '  As  ono 
star  differeth  from  another  star  in  glory,'  murmured  she  ;  '  that  wa? 
the  lesson  to-day,  papa ;  '  and  when  she  felt  him  press  her  hand,  she 
knew  he  was  thinking  of  that  last  time  she  had  heard  the  lesson, 
when  he  had  not  been  with  her,  and  her  thoughts  went  with  his, 
though  not  another  word  was  spoken. 

Flora  hardly  knew  when  they  ceased  to  talk.  She  had  musings 
equally  engrossing  of  her  own.  She  saw  she  was  likely  to  be  very 
intimate  with  3Ieta  Rivers,  and  she  was  roaming  away  into  schemes 
for  not  letting  the  intercourse  drop,  and  hopes  of  being  admitted  to 
many  a  pleasure,  as  yet  little  within  her  reach — parties,  balls,  Lon- 
don itself,  and,  above  all,  the  satisfaction  of  being  admired.  The 
certainty  that  3Ir.  Eivers  thought  her  pretty  and  agreeable,  had 
gratified  her  all  the  evening,  and  if  he,  with  his  refined  taste, 
tliought  so,  what  wquld  others  think  ?  Her  only  fear  was,  that 
Ethel's  awkwardness  might  make  an  unfavourable  impression, 
but,  at  least,  she  said  to  herself,  it  was  anything  but  vulgar  awk- 
wardness. 

Their  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  fly  stopping.  It  waa 
at  a  little  shop  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  Dr.  May  explained 
that  he  wanted  to  inquire  for  a  patient.  lie  went  in  for  a  moment, 
then  came  back  to  desire  that  they  would  go  home,  for  he  should  be 
detained  some  little  time.  No  one  need  sit  up  for  him — he  would 
let  himself  in. 

It  seemed  a  comment  on  Ethel's  thoughts,  bringing  them  back 
to  the  present  hour.  That  daily  work  of  homely  mercy,  hoping  for 
nothing  again,  was  surely  the  true  way  of  doing  service. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


Watchman.     How,  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogberry.    Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  biin,  but  let  hliu  go. 

Mccn  Ado  about  Notiiiso. 

Dn.  May  promised  Margaret  that  he  would  see  whether  the  black 
hole  of  Cocksmoor  was  all  that  Norman  depicted  it,  and,  accord- 
ingly, he  came  home  that  way  on  Tuesday  evening,  the  next  week, 
much  to  the  astonishment  of  Richard,  who  was  in  the  act  of  so 
mending  the  window  that  it  might  let  in  air  when  open,  and  keep  it 
out  when  shut,  neither  of  which  purposes  had  it  ever  yet  answd^ed. 
Dr.  May  walked  in,  met  his  daughter's  look  of  delight  and  sur- 
prise, spoke  cheerfully  to  Mrs.  Green,  a  hospital  acquaintance  of 
his,  like  half  the  rest  of  the  country,  and  made  her  smile  and  cour- 
tesy by  asking  if  she  was  not  surprised  at  such  doings  in  her  house ; 
then  looked  at  the  children,  and  patted  the  head  that  looked  most 


THE  DAISY  ciiAnr.  203 

fit  to  pat,  inquired  who  was  the  best  scholar,  and  oflfered  a  penny  to 
whoever  could  spell  copper  tea-kettle,  which  being  done  by  three 
merry  mortals,  and  having  made  him  extremely  popular,  he  offered 
Ethel  a  lift,  and  carried  her  oflF  between  him  and  Adams,  on  whom 
he  now  depended  for  driving  him,  since  Richard  was  going  to  Ox- 
ford at  once. 

It  was  possible  to  spare  him  now.  Dr.  May's  arm  was  as  well 
as  he  expected  it  ever  would  be ;  he  had  discarded  the  sling,  and 
could  use  his  hand  again,  but  the  arm  was  still  stiff  and  weak — he 
could  not  stretch  it  out,  nor  use  it  for  anything  requiring  strength , 
it  soon  grew  tired  with  writing,  and  his  daughters  feared  that  it 
ached  more  than  he  chose  to  confess,  when  they  saw  it  resting  in 
the  breast  of  his  waistcoat.  Driving  he  never  would  have  attempted 
again,  even  if  he  could,  and  he  had  quite  given  -ip  carving — he 
could  better  bear  to  sit  at  the  side,  than  at  the  bottom  of  the  dinner- 
table. 

]\[eans  of  carrying  Margaret  safely  had  been  arranged  by  Eichard, 
and  there  was  no  necessity  for  longer  delaying  his  going  to  Oxford, 
but  he  was  so  unwillingly  spared  by  all,  as  to  put  him  quite  into 
good  spirits.  Ethel  was  much  concerned  to  lose  him  from  Cocks- 
moor  ;  and  dreaded  hindrances  to  her  going  thither  without  his 
escort ;  but  she  had  much  trust  in  having  her  father  on  her  side, 
and  meant  to  get  authority  from  him  for  the  propriety  of  going 
alone  with  Mary. 

She  did  not  know  how  Norman  had  jeopardized  her  projects,  but 
the  danger  blew  over.  Dr.  May  told  Margaret  that  the  place  was 
clean  and  wholesome,  and  though  more  smoky  than  might  be  pre- 
ferred, there  was  nothing  to  do  anyone  in  health  any  harm,  espe- 
cially when  the  walk  there  and  back  was  over  the  fresh  moor.  He 
lectured  Ethel  herself  on  opening  the  window,  now  that  she  could  ; 
and  advised  Norman  to  go  and  spend  an  hour  in  the  school,  that  he 
might  learn  how  pleasant  peat-smoke  was — a  speech  Norman  did 
not  like  at  all.  The  real  touchstone  of  temper  is  ridicule  on  a 
point  where  we  do  not  choose  to  own  ourselves  fastidious,  and  if  it 
had  been  from  anyone  but  his  father,  Norman  would  not  have  so 
entirely  kept  down  his  irritation. 

Richard  passed  his  examination  successfully,  and  Dr.  May  wrote 
himself  to  express  his  satisfaction.  Nothing  went  wrong  just  now 
except  little  Tom,  who  seemed  to  be  justifying  Richard's  fears  of 
the  consequence  of  exciting  his  father's  anger.  At  home,  he  shrank 
and  hesitated  at  the  simplest  question  if  put  by  his  father  suddenly  ; 
and  the  appearance  of  cowardice  and  prevarication  displeasing 
Dr.  May  further,  rendered  his  tone  louder,  and  frightened  Tom  the 
more,  giving  his  manner  an  air  of  sullen  reserve  that  was  most 
unpleasant.  At  school  it  was  much  the  same — he  kept  aloof  from 
Norman,  and  threw  himself  more  into  the  opposite  faction,  by  whom 


204  TIIK   DAISY    €11  MS. 

he  was  shielded  from  all  puuishment,  except  what  they  chose  them 
selves  to  iuflict  on  him. 

Norman's  post  as  head  of  the  school  was  rendered  more  diflScult 
by  the  departure  of  his  friend  Cheviot,  who  had  always  upheld  hia 
authority ;  Harvey  Anderson  did  not  openly  transgress,  for  he  had 
a  character  to  maintain,  but  it  was  well  known  throughout  the  school 
that  there  was  a  wide  difference  between  the  boys,  and  that  Anderson 
thought  it  absurd,  superfluous,  and  troublesome  in  May  not  to  wink 
at  abuses  which  appeared  to  be  licensed  by  long  standing.  "When 
Edward  Anderson,  Axworthy,  and  their  set,  broke  through  rules, 
it  was  with  the  understanding  that  the  second  boy  in  the  school 
would  support  them,  if  he  durst. 

The  summer,  and  the  cricket  season,  brought  the  battle  of  Ball- 
hatchet's  house  to  issue.  The  cricket  ground  was  the  field  close  to 
it,  and  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  there  had  been  a  frequent 
custom  of  despatching  juniors  to  his  house  for  tarts  and  ginger-beer 
bottles.  Norman  knew  of  instances  last  j-ear  in  which  this  had  led 
to  serious  mischief,  and  had  made  up  his  mind  that,  at  whatever 
loss  of  popularity,  it  was  his  duty  to  put  a  stop  to  the  practice. 

He  was  an  ardent  cricketer  himself,  and  though  the  game  did  not, 
in  anticipation,  seem  to  him  to  have  all  the  charms  of  last  year,  he 
entered  into  it  with  full  zest  when  once  engaged.  But  his  eye  was 
on  all  parts  of  the  field,  and  especially  on  the  corner  by  the  bridge, 
and  the  boys  knew  him  well  enough  to  attempt  uothing  unlawful 
within  the  i-ange  of  that  glance.  However,  the  constant  vigilance 
was  a  strain  too  great  to  be  always  kept  up,  and  he  had  reason  to 
believe  he  was  eluded  more  than  once. 

At  last  came  a  capture,  something  like  that  of  Tom,  one  which 
he  could  not  have  well  avoided  making.  The  victim  was  George 
Larkins,  the  son  of  a  clergyman  in  the  neighbourhood,  a  wild,  merry 
varlet,  who  got  into  mischief  rather  for  the  sake  of  the  fun  than 
from  any  bad  disposition. 

His  look  of  consternation  was  exaggerated  into  a  most  comical 
caricature,  in  order  to  hide  how  much  of  it  was  real. 

'  So  you  are  at  that  trick,  Larkins.' 

'  There  !  that  bet  is  lost ! '  exclaimed  Larkins.  '  I  laid  Hill  half- 
a-crown  that  you  would  not  see  me  when  you  were  mooning  over 
your  verses ! ' 

'  Well,  I  have  seen  you.     And  now  —  ?  ' 

'  Come,  you  would  not  thrash  a  fellow  when  you  have  just  lost 
him  half-a-crown  !  Single  misfortunes  never  come  alone,  they  say ; 
BO  there's  my  money  and  my  credit  gone,  to  say  nothing  of  Ball- 
hatchet's  ginger-beer ! ' 

The  boy  made  such  absurd  faces,  that  Norman  could  hardly  help 
laugluiig,  though  he  wished  to  make  it  a  serious  affair.  *  You 
know,  Larkins,  I  have  given  out  that  such  things  arc  not  to  be.  It 
is  a  melancholy  fact ' 


THE   DAISr   CHAIN.  205 

'  Aye  !  so  you  must  make  an  example  of  me  !  '  said  Larkins,  pre- 
tending to  look  resigned.  '  Better  call  all  the  fellows  together, 
hadn't  you,  and  make  it  more  effective  ?  It  would  be  grateful  tc 
one's  feelings,  you  know — and  June,'  added  he,  with  a  ridiculous 
confidential  air,  '  if  you  only  lay  it  on  soft,  I'll  take  care  it  makes 
noise  enough.     Grreat  cry,  little  wool,  you  know.' 

'  Come  with  me,'  said  Norman.  '  I'll  take  care  you  are  example 
enough.     What  did  you  give  for  those  articles  ?  ' 

'  Fifteen-pence  half-penny.  Rascally  dear,  isn't  it  ?  but  the  old 
rogue  makes  one  pay  double  for  the  risk  !  You  are  making  his 
fortune,  you  have  raised  his  prices  fourfold.' 

'  I'll  take  care  of  that.' 

'  Why,  where  are  you  taking  me  ?  Back  to  him  ?  ' 

'  I  am  going  to  gratify  your  wish  to  be  an  example.' 

'  A  gibbet !  a  gibbet !  '  cried  Larkins.  '  I'm  to  be  turned  off  on 
the  spot  where  the  crime  took  place — a  warning  to  all  beholders. 
Only  let  me  send  home  for  old  Neptune's  chain,  if  you  please,  sir — 
if  you  hang  me  in  the  combined  watch-chains  of  the  school,  I  fear 
they  would  give  way,  and  defeat  the  purposes  of  justice.' 

They  were  by  this  time  at  the  bridge.  '  Come  in,'  said  Norman, 
to  his  follower,  as  he  crossed  the  entrance  of  the  little  shop,  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  been  there.  A  little  cringing  shrivelled  old  man 
stood  up  in  astonishment. 

'  Mr.  May  !  can  I  have  the  pleasure,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Ballhatchet,  you  know  that  it  is  contrary  to  the  rules  that 
there  should  be  any  traffic  with  the  school  without  special  permission.' 

'  Yes,  sir — ^just  nothing  sir — only  when  the  young  gentlemen 
come  here,  sir — I'm  an  old  man,  sir,  and  I  don't  like  not  to  oblige  a 
young  gentleman,  sir,'  pleaded  the  old  man,  in  a  great  fright. 

'  Very  likely,'  said  Norman,  '  but  I  am  come  to  give  you  fair 
notice.  I  am  not  going  to  allow  the  boys  here  to  be  continually 
smuggling  spirits  itito  the  school.' 

'  Spirits  !  bless  you,  sir,  I  never  thought  of  no  sich  a  thing  !  'Tis 
nothing  in  life  but  ginger-beer — very  cooling  drink  sir,  of  my  wife's 
making ;  she  had  the  receipt  from  her  grandmother  up  in  Leices 
tershire.  Won't  you  taste  a  bottle,  sir  ?  '  and  he  hastily  made  a 
cork  bounce,  and  poured  it  out. 

That,  of  course,  was  genuine,  but  Norman  was  '  up  to  him,'  in 
Bchool-boy  phrase. 

'  Give  me  yours,  Larkins.' 

No  pop  ensued.  Larkins,  enjoying  the  detection,  put  his  hands 
an  his  knees,  and  looked  wickedly  up  in  the  old  man's  face  to  see 
what  was  coming. 

'  Bless  me  !  It  is  a  little  flat.  I  wonder  how  that  happened  ? 
I'll  be  most  happy  to  change  it,  sir.  Wife  !  what's  the  meaning  of 
Mr.  Larkins'  ginger-pop  being  so  flat  ?  ' 

'  It  is  very  curious  ginger-beer  indeed,  Mr.  Ballhatchet,'  said 


206 


THE    DAISY   CIIAm. 


Norman ;  '  and  sines  it  is  liable  to  have  such  strange  properties,  1 
cannot  allow  it  to  be  used  any  more  at  the  school.' 

'  Very  well,  sir— as  you  please,  sir.  You  are  the  first  gentleman 
as  has  objected,  sir.' 

'  And,  once  for  all,  I  give  you  warning,'  added  Norman,  •  that  if  I 

have  reason  to  believe  you  have  been  obliging  the  young  gentlemen 

the  magistrates  and  the  trustees  of  the  road  shall  certainly  hear  of  it.' 

'  You  would  not  hurt  a  poor  man,  sir,  as  is  drove  to  it — you  as 

has  such  a  name  for  goodness.' 

'  I  have  given  you  warning,'  said  Norman.  '  The  next  time  I 
find  any  of  your  bottles  in  the  school  fields,  your  license  goes.  Now, 
there  are  your  goods.  Give  "Mr.  Larkins  back  the  fifteen-pence.  I 
wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  of  such  a  charge  !  ' 

Having  extracted  the  money,  Norman  turned  to  eaTe  the  shop. 
Larkins,  triumphant,  '  Ha  !  there's  Harrison  ! '  as  the  tutor  rode  by, 
and  they  touched  their  caps.  '  How  he  stared !  My  eyes !  June, 
you'll  be  had  up  for  dealing  with  old  Ball ! '  and  he  went  into  an 
ecstasy  of  laugiiing.  '  You've  settled  him,  I  believe.  "Well,  is 
justice  satisfied  ? ' 

'  It  would  be  no  use  thrashing  you,'  said  Norman,  laughing,  as  ho 
leant  against  the  parapet  of  tlie  bridge,  and  pinched  the  boy's  ear. 
'  There's  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  you  but  chaflF.' 

Larkins  was  charmed  with  the  compliment. 

'  But  I'll  tell  you  what,  Larkins,  I  can't  think  how  a  fellow  like 
you  can  go  and  give  in  to  these  sneaking,  underhand  tricks  that 
make  you  ashamed  to  look  one  in  the  face.' 

'  It  is  only  for  the  fun  of  it.' 

'  Well,  I  wish  you  would  find  your  fun  some  other  way.  Come, 
Larkins,  recollect  yourself  a  little — you  have  a  home  not  so  far  oS. 
How  do  you  think  your  father  and  luothcr  would  ftincy  seeing  you 
reading  the  book  you  had  yesterday,  or  coming  out  of  i3allhatchet'8 
with  a  bottle  of  spirits,  called  by  a  false  name  ?  ' 

Larkins  pinched  his  fingers ;  home  was  a  string  that  could  touch 
him,  but  it  seemed  beneath  him  to  own  it.  At  that  moment  a  car- 
riage api^roachcd,  the  boy's  whole  face  lighted  up,  and  he  jumped 
forward.     '  Our  own  !  '  he  cried.     '  There  she  is  ! ' 

i>he  was,  of  course,  his  mother;  and  Norman,  though  turning 
hastily  away  that  his  presence  might  prove  no  restraint,  saw  the  boy 
fly  over  the  door  of  the  open  carriage,  and  could  have  sobbed  at  the 
thought  of  what  that  meeting  was. 

'Who  was  that  with  you  'f '  asked  3Irs.  Larkins,  when  the  had 
obtained  leave  to  have  her  boy  with  her,  while  she  did  her  shopping. 

'  That  was  May  senior,  our  Dux.' 

'  Was  it  V  I  am  very  glad  you  should  be  with  him,  my  dear 
George.     He  is  very  kind  to  you,  I  hope  ':* ' 

'  He  is  a  jolly  good  fellow,'  yaid  Larkins,  sincerely,  though  by  no 
means  troubling  himself  as  to  the  appropriateness  of  the  eulogy 


rilE   DAISY    CHAIN-.  207 

nor  thinking  it  necessary  to  explain  to  his  mother  the  terms  of  the 
conversation. 

It  was  not  fruitless  ;  Larkins  did  avoid  mischief  when  it  was  not 
extremely  inviting,  was  more  amenable  to  May  senior,  and  having 
been  put  in  mind  by  him  of  his  home,  was  not  ashamed  to  bring  the 
thought  to  the  aid  of  his  eyes,  when,  on  Sunday,  during  a  long  ser- 
mon of  Mr.  Ramsden's,  he  knew  that  Axworthy  was  making  tho 
grimace  which  irresistibly  incited  him  to  make  a  still  finer  one. 

And  Ballhatchet  was  so  much  convinced  of  '  that  there  young 
May'  being  in  earnest,  that  he  assured  bis  persuasive  customers  that 
it  was  as  much  as  his  license  was  worth,  to  supply  them. 

Evil  and  insubordination  were  moi-e  easily  kept  under  than  Nor- 
man had  expected,  when  he  first  made  up  his  mind  to  the  struggle. 
Firmness  had  so  far  carried  the  day,  and  the  power  of  manful  as- 
sertion of  the  right  had  been  proved,  contrary  to  Cheviot's  parting 
auguries,  that  he  would  only  make  himself  disliked,  and  do  no  good. 

The  whole  of  the  school  was  extremely  excited  this  summer  by 
a  proceeding  of  Mr.  Tomkins,  the  brewer,  who  suddenly  closed  up  the 
foot-way  called  Randall's  Alley,  declaring  that  there  was  no  right  of 
passage  through  a  certain  field  at  the  back  of  his  brewery.  Not  only 
the  school,  but  the  town  was  indignant,  and  the  Mays  especially  so. 
It  had  been  the  Doctor's  way  to  school  forty  years  ago,  and  there  were 
recollections  connected  with  it,  that  made  him  regard  it  with  per- 
sonal afi"ection.  Norman,  too,  could  not  bear  to  lose  it ;  he  had  not 
entirely  conquered  his  reluctance  to  pass  that  spot  in  the  High 
Street,  and  the  loss  of  the  alley  would  be  a  positive  deprivation  to 
him.  Almost  every  native  of  Stoneborough  felt  strongly  the  en- 
croachment of  the  brewer,  and  the  boys,  of  course,  carried  the  sen- 
timent to  exaggeration. 

The  propensity  to  public  speaking  perhaps  added  to  the  excite- 
ment. ^)r  Norman  May,  and  Harvey  Anderson,  for  once  in  unison, 
each  made  a  vehement  harangue  in  the  school-court — Anderson's  a 
fine  specimen  of  the  village  Hampden  style,  about  Britons  never 
suifering  indignities,  and  free-born  Englishmen  swelling  at  injuries. 

'  That  they  do,  my  hearty,'  interjected  Larkins,  pointing  to  an 
inflamed  eye  that  had  not  returned  to  its  right  dimensions.  How- 
ever, Anderson  went  on  unmoved  by  the  under  titter,  and  demon- 
strated, to  the  full  satisfaction  of  all  the  audience,  that  nothing 
could  be  more  illegal  and  unfounded  than  the  brewer's  claims. 

Then  came  a  great  outburst  from  Norman,  with  all  his  father's 
headlong  vehemence  ;  the  way  was  the  right  of  the  town,  the  walk 
had  been  trodden  by  their  forefathers  for  generations  past — it  had  been 
made  by  the  good  old  generous-hearted  man  who  loved  his  town  and 
townspeople,  and  would  have  heard  with  shame  and  anger  of  a 
stranger,  a  new  inhabitant,  a  grasping  radical,  caring,  as  radicals 
always  did,  for  no  rights,  but  for  their  own  chance  of  unjust  gains, 
coming  here  to  Stoneborough  to  cut  them  ofi"  from  their  own  path' 


208  THE   DAISY    CHAW. 

He  talk  of  liberalism  and  the  rights  of  the  poor  !  lie  who  cut  efl 
llaudall's  poor  old  creatures  in  the  almshouse  from  their  short  way 
and  then  came  some  stories  of  his  oppression  as  a  poor-law  guardian, 
which  greatly  aggravated  the  wrath  of  the  speaker  and  the  audience, 
though  otherwise  they  did  not  exactly  bear  on  the  subject.  '  What 
would  old  Nicholas  llandall  say  to  these  nineteenth-century  doings ! 
finished  Norman. 

'  Down  with  them  !  '  cried  a  voice  from  the  throng,  probably 
Larkins's  ;  but  there  was  no  desire  to  investigate,  it  was  the  universal 
sentiment.  '  Down  with  it !  Hurrah,  we'll  liave  our  foot-path  open 
again  !  Down  with  the  fences  !  Britons  never  shall  be  slaves ! '  as 
Larkins  finally  ejaculated. 

'  That's  the  way  to  bring  it  to  bear !  '  said  Harvey  Anderson. 
*  See  if  he  dares  to  bring  an  action  against  us.     Hurrah  ! ' 

'  Yes,  that's  the  way  to  settle  it,'  said  Norman.  '  Let's  have  it 
down.  It  is  an  oppressive,  arbitrary,  shameful  proceeding,  and  we'll 
show  him  we  won't  submit  to  it ! ' 

Carried  along  by  tlio  general  feeling,  the  whole  troop  of  boys 
dashed  shouting  up  to  the  barricade  at  the  entrance  of  the  field,  and 
levelled  it  with  the  ground.  A  handkerchief  was  fastened  to  the  top 
of  one  of  the  stakes,  and  waved  over  the  brewhousc  wall,  and  some 
of  the  boys  were  for  picking  up  stones  and  dirt,  and  launching  them 
over,  in  hopes  of  spoiling  the  beer ;  but  Norman  put  a  stop  to  this, 
and  brought  them  back  to  the  school-yard,  still  in  a  noisy  state  of 
exultation. 

It  cooled  a  little  by-and-by  under  the  doubt  how  their  exploit 
would  be  taken.  At  home,  Norman  found  it  already  known,  and  his 
father  half  glad,  half  vexed,  enjoying  the  victory  over  Tomkins,  yet 
a  little  uneasy  on  his  son's  behalf.  '  "What  will  Dr.  Iloxton  say  to 
the  dux?  '  said  he.  '  I  didn't  know  he  was  to  be  dux  in  miscliief 
as  well  as  out  of  it.' 

'  You  can't  call  it  mischief,  papa,  to  resent  an  unwarranted 
encroachment  of  our  rights  by  such  an  old  ruffian  as  that.  One's 
blood  is  up  to  think  of  the  things  he  has  done !  ' 

*  He  richly  deserves  it,  no  doubt,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  and  yet  I 
wish  you  had  been  out  of  the  row.  If  there  is  any  blame,  you  will 
be  the  first  it  will  light  on.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  it,  that  is  but  just.  Anderson  and  I  seem  to 
have  stirred  it  up — if  it  wanted  stirring — for  it  was  in  every  fellow 
there ;  indeed,  1  had  no  notion  it  was  coming  to  this  when  I 
began.' 

'  Oratory,'  said  the  Doctor,  smiling.  '  Ha,  Norman  !  Think  a 
little  another  time,  my  boy,  before  you  take  the  law  into  your  own 
hands,  or,  what  is  worse,  into  a  lot  of  hands  you  can't  control  for 
good,  though  you  may  excite  them  to  harm.' 

Dr.  Hoxton  did  not  come  into  .school  at  the  u.sual  hour,  and,  iv 


TITK    DAISY    CHAIN.  209 

tLe  course  of  the  morning,  sent  for  May  senior  to  speak  to  him  in 
his  study 

He  looked  very  broad,  awful,  and  dignified,  as  he  informed  him 
that  Mr.  Tomkins  had  just  been  with  him  to  complain  of  the 
damage  that  had  been  done,  and  he  appeared  extremely  displeased 
that  the  Dux  should  have  been  no  check  on  such  proceedings. 

'  I  am  sorry,  sir,'  said  Norman,  '  but  I  believe  it  was  the  general 
feeling  that  he  had  no  right  to  stop  the  alley,  and,  therefore,  that  it 
could  not  be  wrong  to  break  it  down.' 

'  Whether  he  has  a  right  or  not,  is  not  a  question  to  be  settled 
by  you.  So  I  find  that  you,  whose  proper  office  it  is  to  keep  order, 
have  been  inflaming  the  mischievous  and  aggressive  spirit  amongst 
the  others.  I  am  surprised  at  you ;  I  thought  you  were  more  to 
be  depended  upon,  May,  in  your  position.' 

Norman  coloured  a  good  deal,  and  simply  answered,  '  I  am 
sorry,  sir.' 

'  Take  care,  then,  that  nothing  of  the  kind  happens  again,'  said 
Dr.  Hoxton,  who  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  did  not  find  fault  with 
him  willingly. 

That  the  first  inflammatory  discourse  had  been  made  by  Ander- 
son, did  not  appear  to  be  known — he  only  came  in  for  the  general 
reprimand  given  to  the  school. 

It  was  reported  the  following  evening,  just  as  the  town  boys 
turned  out  to  go  to  their  homes,  that  '  old  Tomkins  had  his  fence 
up  five  times  higher  than  before.' 

'  Have  at  him  again,  say  I  ! '  exclaimed  Axworthy.  '  What 
business  has  he  coming  stopping  up  ways  that  were  made  before  ho 
was  born  ? ' 

'  We  shall  catch  it  from  the  doctor  if  we  do,'  said  Edward  An- 
derson. '  He  looked  in  no  end  of  a  rage  yesterday  when  he  talked 
about  the  credit  of  the  school.' 

'  Who  cares  for  the  credit  of  the  school  ?  '  said  the  elder  An- 
derson ;  '  we  are  out  of  the  school  now — we  are  townsmen — Stone- 
borough  boys — citizens  not  bound  to  submit  to  injustice.  No,  no, 
the  old  rogue  knew  it  would  not  stand  if  it  was  brought  into  court, 
so  he  brings  down  old  Hoxton  on  us  instead — a  dirty  trick  he  de- 
serves to  be  punished  for.' 

And  there  was  a  general  shout  and  yell  in  reply. 

'  Anderson,'  said  Norman,  '  you  had  better  not  excite  them 
again,  they  are  ripe  for  mischief.  It  will  go  further  than  it  did 
yesterday — don't  you  see  ?  ' 

Anderson  could  not  afi"ord  to  get  into  a  scrape  without  May  to 
stand  before  him,  and  rather  ciulkily  he  assented. 

*  It  is  of  no  use  to  rave  about  old  Tomkins,'  proceeded  Norman^ 
in  his  style  of  popular  oratory.  '  If  it  is  illegal,  some  one  will  go 
to  law  about  it,  and  we  shall  have  our  alley  again.  We  have  shown 
bim  our  mind  once,  and  that  is  enough ;  if  we  let  him  alone  now 


2K 


TIIK    DAISY   CHAIN. 


lie  will  see  'tis  only  because  we  are  ordered,  not  for  his  sake.  I( 
would  be  just  putting  him  in  the  right,  and  may  be  winning  hia 
cause  for  him,  to  use  any  more  violence.  There's  law  for  you,  An- 
derson. So  now  no  more  about  it — let  us  all  go  home  like  rational 
fellows.     August,  where's  August  ?  ' 

Tom  was  not  visible — he  generally  avoided  going  home  with  his 
brother,  and  Norman  having  seen  the  boys  divide  into  two  or  three 
little  parties,  as  their  roads  lay  homewards,  found  he  had  an  hour 
of  light  for  an  expedition  of  his  own,  along  the  bank  of  the  river. 
He  had  taken  up  botany  with  much  ardour,  and  sharing  the  study 
with  Margaret  was  a  great  delight  to  both.  There  was  a  report  that 
the  rare  yellow  bog-beau  grew  in  a  meadow  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
up  the  river,  and  thither  he  was  bound,  extremely  enjoying  the  sum- 
mer evening  walk,  as  the  fresh  dewey  coolness  sunk  on  all  around, 
and  the  noises  of  the  town  were  mellowed  by  distance  and  the  sun'a 
last  beams  slanted  on  the  green  meadows,  and  the  May-flies  danced 
and  dragon-flies  darted,  and  fish  rose  or  leapt  high  in  the  air,  or 
showed  their  spotted  sides,  and  opened  and  shut  their  gills,  as  they 
rested  in  the  clear  water,  and  the  evening  breeze  rustled  in  the  tail 
reeds,  and  brought  fragrance  from  the  fresh-mown  hay. 

It  was  complete  enjoyment  to  Norman  after  his  day's  study, 
and  the  rule  and  watch  over  the  unruly  crowd  of  boys,  and  ho 
walked  and  wandered,  and  collected  plants  for  3Iargaret  till  the  sun 
was  down,  and  the  grasshoppers  chirped  clamorously,  while  the 
fern-owl  purred,  and  the  beetle  hummed,  and  the  skinmiing  swallows 
had  given  place  to  the  soft-winged  bat,  and  the  large  white  owl 
floating  over  the  fields  as  it  moused  in  the  long  grass. 

The  summer  twilight  was  sobering  every  tint,  when,  as  Normau 
crossed  the  cricket-field,  he  heard,  in  the  distance,  a  loud  shout. 
He  looked  up,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  some  black  specks 
dancing  in  the  forbidden  field,  and  something  like  the  waving  of  a 
flag,  but  it  was  not  light  enough  to  be  certain,  and  he  walked 
quickly  home. 

The  front  door  was  fastened,  and,  while  he  was  waiting  to  be  let 
in,  Mr.  Harrison  walked  by,  and  called  out,  *  You  are  late  at  home 
to-night — it  is  half-past  nine.' 

'  I  have  been  taking  a  walk,  sir.' 

A  good-night  was  the  answer,  as  he  was  admitted.  Every- 
one in  the  drawing-room  looked  up,  and  exclaimed,  as  he  ectered. 
'  Where's  Tom  ?  ' 

'  What !  he  is  not  come  home  ?  ' 

'  No  !     AV'as  he  not  with  you  ?  ' 

'  I  missed  him  after  school.  I  was  persuaded  he  was  come  home. 
I  have  bocn  to  look  for  the  yellow  bog-beau.  There,  Margaret. 
Had  not  I  better  go  and  look  for  him  ? ' 

'  Yes,  do,'  said  Dr.  May.     '  The  boy  is  never  off  one's  mind.' 

A  sort  of  instinctive  dread  directed  Norman's  steps  down  the 


THE   DAISY   CHAIX.  211 

open  portion  of  Randall's  Alley,  and,  voices  growing  louder  as  he 
came  nearer,  confirmed  his  suspicions.  The  fence  at  this  end  wa? 
down,  and,  on  entering  the  field,  a  gleam  of  light  met  his  eye  on  th« 
ground — a  cloud  of  smoke,  black  figures  were  flitting  round  it, 
pushing  brands  into  red  places,  and  feeding  the  bonfire. 

'  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  '  exclaimed  Norman.  •  You  have 
got  yourselves  into  a  tremendous  scrape  ! ' 

A  peal  of  laughter,  and  shout  of  '  Kandall  and  Stoneborougb 
for  ever  ! '  was  the  reply. 

*  August !  May  junior  !  Tom  !  answer  me  !  Is  he  here  ?  '  asked 
Norman,  not  solicitous  to  identify  anyone. 

But  gruff  voices  broke  in  upon  them.  '  There  they  are,  nothing 
like  'em  for  mischief.' 

'  Come,  young  gentlemen,'  said  a  policeman, '  be  off,  if  you  please. 
We  don't  want  to  have  none  of  you  at  the  Station  to-night.' 

A  general  hurry-skurry  ensued.  Norman  alone,  strong  in  inno- 
cence, walked  quietly  away,  and,  as  he  came  forth  from  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Alley,  beheld  something  scouring  away  before  him,  in 
the  direction  of  home.  It  popped  in  at  the  front  door  before  him, 
but  was  not  in  the  drawing-room.  He  strode  up-stairs,  called  but 
was  not  answered,  and  found,  under  the  bed-clothes,  a  quivering 
mass,  consisting  of  Tom  with  all  his  clothes  on,  fully  persuaded 
that  it  was  the  policeman  who  was  pursuing  him. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


Oh  Life,  without  tliy  chequered  scene, 
Of  right  and  wrong,  of  weal  and  woe, 
Success  and  failure,  could  a  ground 
For  magnanimiiy  be  found '! ' 

"Wop.rswoKTH. 


Doctor  May  was  called  for  late  the  next  day,  Friday,  and  spent 
Bome  time  in  one  of  the  houses  near  the  river.  It  was  nearly  eight 
o'clock  when  he  came  away,  and  he  lingered,  looking  towards  the 
school,  in  hopes  of  a  walk  home  with  his  boys. 

Presently  he  saw  Norman  come  out  from  under  the  archway,  his 
cap  drawn  over  his  face,  and  step,  gesture,  and  manner,  betraying 
that  something  was  seriously  wrong.  He  came  up  almost  to  his 
father  without  seeing  him,  until  startled  by  his  exclamation,  '  Nor- 
man— why  Norman,  what's  the  matter  ?  ' 

Norman's  lips  quivered,  and  his  face  was  pale — he  seemed  as  if 
he  could  not  speak. 

'  Where's  Tom  ?  '  said  the  doctor,  much  alarmed.  '  Has  he  got 
into  disgrace  about  this  business  of  Tomkins  ?     That  boy — ' 

'  He  has  only  got  an  imposition,'  interrupted  Norman.  '  No,  il 
IS  not  that — it  is  myself, — '  and  it  was  only  with  a  gulp  and  strug- 


212  TlIK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

gle  that  he  brought  out  the  words,  '  I  am  turned  down  in  tho 
Bchool.' 

Tlie  Doctor  started  back  a  step  or  two,  aghast.  '  What — hovi 
— speak,  Norman.     What  have  you  done  ?  ' 

'  Nothing !  '  said  Norman,  recovering,  in  the  desire  to  re-assurc 
his  father,  '  nothing !  ' 

'  That's  right,'  said  the  Doctor,  breathing  freely,  '  What's  the 
meaning  of  it  ....  a  misunderstanding  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Norman,  with  bitterness.  '  It  is  all  Anderson's 
doing — a  word  from  him  would  have  set  all  straight — but  he  would 
not — I  believe,  from  my  heart,  he  held  his  tongue  to  get  me  down, 
that  he  might  have  the  Randall ! ' 

'  We'll  see  you  righted,'  said  the  Doctor,  eagerly.  '  Come,  tell 
me  the  whole  story,  Norman.     Is  it  about  this  unlucky  business  ? ' 

'  Yes.  The  town-fellows  were  all  up  about  it  last  evening,  when 
v.'e  came  out  of  school.  Anderson  senior  himself  began  to  put  them 
up  to  having  the  fence  down  again.  Yes,  that  he  did — I  remember 
his  very  words — that  Tomkins  could  not  bring  it  into  Court,  and 
so  set  old  Iloxton  at  us.  Well,  I  told  them  it  would  not  do, — 
thouglit  I  had  settled  them — saw  them  off  home — yes,  Simpson, 
and  Benson,  and  Grey,  up  the  High  Street,  and  the  others  their 
way.  I  only  left  Axworthj' going  into  a  shop  when  I  set  off  on  my 
walk.  What  could  a  fellow  do  more  ?  How  was  I  to  know  that 
that  Axworthy  would  get  them  together  again  and  take  them  to 
this  affair — pull  up  the  stakes — saw  them  down — for  they  were  hard 
to  get  down — shy  all  sorts  of  things  over  into  the  court — hoot  at 
old  Tomkins's  man,  when  he  told  them  to  be  off — and  make  a 
bonfire  of  the  sticks  at  last  ?  ' 

*  And  Harvey  Anderson  was  there  ? ' 

'  No — not  he.  He  is  too  sharp — born  and  bred  an  attorney  as 
he  is — he  talked  them  up  to  the  mischief  when  my  back  was  turned, 
and  then  sneaked  quietly  home,  quite  innocent,  and  out  of  the 
Bcrape.' 

'  But  Doctor  Iloxton  can  never  entertain  a  suspicion  that  you 
had  anything  to  do  with  it.' 

'  Yes,  he  does  though.  He  thinks  I  incited  them,  and  Tomkins 
and  the  policeman  declare  I  was  there  in  the  midst  of  the  row — and 
not  one  of  these  fellows  will  explain  how  I  came  at  the  last  to  look 
for  Tom.' 

'Not  Tom  himself?—' 

'  He  did  try  to  speak,  poor  little  fellow,  but,  after  the  other 
affair,  his  word  goes  for  nothing,  and  so,  it  seems,  docs  mine.  I 
did  think  Iloxton  would  have  trusted  me!  ' 

'  And  did  not  he  ?  '  exclaimed  Dr.  May. 

*  He  did  not  in  so  many  words  accuse  me  of — of — but  he  told 
me  he  had  serious  charges  brought  against  me — Mr.  Harrison  had 
Been  mc  at  Ballhatchet's,  setting  an  example  of  disregard  to  rules 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  213 

—and,  again,  Mr.  Harrison  saw  me  coming  in  at  a  latii  Loiu-  last 
night.  "  I  know  he  did,"  I  said,  and  I  explained  where  I  had 
been,  and  they  asked  for  proofs !  I  could  hardly  ansvrer,  from 
surprise,  at  their  not  seeming  to  believe  me,  but  I  said  you  could 
answer  for  my  having  come  in  with  the  flowers  for  my  sister.' 

'  To  be  sure  I  will — I'll  go  this  instant — '  he  was  turning. 

'  It  is  of  no  use,  papa,  to-night ;  Dr.  Hoxton  has  a  dinner- 
party.' •  .  .  . 

'  He  is  always  having  parties.  I  wish  he  would  mind  them  less, 
and  his  business  more.  You  disbelieved  !  but  I'll  see  justice  done 
you,  Norman,  the  first  thing  to-morrow.     Well — ' 

'  "Well  then,  I  said,  old  Ballhatchet  could  tell  that  I  crossed 
the  bridge  at  the  very  time  they  were  doing  this  pretty  piece  of 
work,  for  he  was  sitting  smoking  in  his  porch  when  I  went  home, 
and,  would  you  believe  it  ?  the  old  rascal  would  not  remember  who 
passed  that  evening !  It  is  all  his  malice  and  revenge — nothing 
else ! ' 

*  Why — what  have  you  been  doing  to  him  ?  ' 

Norman  shortly  explained  the  ginger-beer  story,  and  adding, 
'  Cheviot  told  me  I  should  get  nothing  but  ill-will,  and  so  I  have — 
all  those  town  fellows  turn  against  me  now,  and  though  they  know 
as  well  as  possible  how  it  was,  they  won't  say  a  word  to  right  me, 
just  out  of  spite,  because  I  have  stopped  them  from  all  the  mis- 
chief I  could !' 

'  Well,  then—' 

'  They  asked  me  whether — since  I  allowed  that  I  had  been  there 
at  last — I  had  dispersed  the  boys.  I  said  no,  I  had  no  time.  Then 
they  desired  to  know  who  was  there,  and  that  I  had  not  seen;  it 
was  all  dark,  and  there  had  not  been  a  moment,  and  if  I  guessed,  it 
was  no  affair  of  mine  to  say.  So  they  ordered  me  down,  and  had 
\ip  Ned  Anderson,  and  one  or  two  more  who  were  known  to  have 
been  in  the  riot^  and  then  they  consulted  a  good  while,  and  sent  for 
me  ;  Mr.  Wilmot  was  for  me,  I  am  sure,  but  Harrison  was  agabist 
me.  Doctor  Hoxton  sai  there,  and  made  me  one  of  his  addresses. 
He  said  he  would  not  enter  on  the  question  whether  I  had  been 
present  at  the  repetition  of  the  outrage,  as  he  called  it,  but  what 
was  quite  certain  was,  that  I  had  abused  my  authority  and  influence 
in  the  school ;  I  had  been  setting  a  bad  example,  and  breaking  the 
rules  about  Ballhatchet,  and  so  far  from  repressing  mischief^  I  had 
been  the  foremost  in  it,  making  inflammatory  harangues,  leading 
them  to  commit  violence  the  first  time,  and  the  next,  if  not  actually 
taking  part  in  it  personally,  at  any  rate,  not  preventing  it.  In 
short,  he  said  it  was  clear  I  had  not  weight  enough  for  my  post — it 
svas  some  excuse  I  had  been  raised  to  it  so  young — but  it  was 
necessary  to  show  that  proficiency  in  studies  did  not  compensate  for 
disregard  of  discipline,  and  so  he  turned  me  down  below  the  first 
six  !     So  there's  another  May  in  disgrace  ! ' 


214  TFiK  PAiRT  cnAi:^. 

'  It  i^liall  not  last — it  sluiU  not  last,  my  boy,'  said  Dr.  May, 
pressing  Norman's  arm  ;  '  I'll  see  you  righted.  Dr.  Hoxton  shall 
bear  the  whole  story.  I  am  not  for  fathers  interfering  in  general, 
but  if  ever  there  was  a  case,  this  is  !  Why,  it  is  almost  actionable 
— injuring  your  whole  prospects  in  life,  and  all  because  he  will  not 
take  the  trouble  to  make  an  investigation  !     It  is  a  crying  shame.' 

'  Every  fellow  in  the  school  knows  how  it  was,'  said  Norman; 
*  and  plenty  of  them  Avould  be  glad  to  tell,  if  they  had  only  the 
opportunity  ;  but  he  asked  no  one  but  those  two  or  three  worst 
fellows  that  were  at  the  fire,  and  they  would  not  tell,  on  purpose. 
The  school  will  go  to  destruction  now — they'll  get  their  way,  ati\l  all 
I  have  been  striving  for  is  utterly  undone.' 

*  You  setting  a  bad  example  !  Dr.  Hoxton  little  knows  what 
you  have  been  doing.  It  is  a  mockery,  a^  I  have  always  said,  to  seo 
that  old  fellow  sit  wrapped  up  in  his  pomposity,  eating  his  good 
dinners,  and  know^ing  no  more  what  goes  on  among  his  boys  than 
this  umbrella !  But  he  will  listen  to  me — and  we'll  make  those 
boys  confess  the  whole — aye,  and  have  up  Ballhatchet  himself,  to 
say  what  your  traffic  with  him  was  ;  and  we  will  see  what  old  Hox- 
ton says  to  you  then,  Norman.' 

Dr.  May  and  his  son  felt  keenly  and  spoke  strongly.  There 
was  so  much  of  sympathy  and  fellow-feeling  between  them,  that  there 
was  no  backwardness  on  Norman's  part  in  telling  his  whole  trouble, 
with  more  confidence  than  school-boys  often  show  towards  their 
fathers,  and  Dr.  May  entered  into  the  mortification  as  if  he  were 
still  at  school.  They  did  not  go  into  the  house,  but  walked  long 
up  and  down  the  garden,  working  themselves  up  into,  if  possible, 
stronger  indignation,  and  concerting  the  explanation  for  to-morrow, 
when  Dr.  May  meant  to  go  at  once  to  the  head  master,  and  make 
him  attend  to  the  true  version  of  the  story,  appealing  to  Harvey 
Anderson  himself,  Larkins,  and  many  others,  fur  witnesses.  There 
could  be  hardly  a  doubt  that  Norman  would  be  thus  exculpated  ;  but, 
if  Dr.  Hoxton  would  not  see  things  in  their  true  light,  J)r.  May  was 
ready  to  take  him  away  at  once,  rather  than  see  him  suffer  injustice 

Still,  though  comforted  by  his  father's  entire  reliance,  Normati 
was  suflering  severely  under  the  sense  of  indignity,  and  grieved  that 
Dr.  Hoxton,  and  the  other  masters,  should  have  believed  him  guilty 
— that  name  of  May  could  never  again  boast  of  being  without 
reproach.  To  be  in  disgrace  stung  him  to  the  quick,  even  though 
undeservedly,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  go  in,  meet  his  sisters,  and 
be  pitied.  '  There's  no  need  they  should  know  of  it,'  said  he,  when 
the  Minster  clock  pealing  ten,  obliged  them  to  go  in  doors,  and 
his  father  agreed.  They  bade  each  other  good  night,  with  tiio 
renewal  of  the  promise  that  Dr.  Hoxton  should  be  forced  to  hoar 
Norman's  vindication  the  first  thing  to-morrow,  Harvey  Anderson 
be  disappointed  of  what  he  meanly  triumphed  in,  and  Normau  be 
again  in  his  post  at  the  head  of  the   school,  iu  more  honour  and 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  215 

confidence  flian  ever,  putting  down  evil,  and  making  StoncborouL'Ii 
what  it  ought  to  be. 

As  Dr.  May  lay  awake  in  the  summer's  morning,  meditating  on 
his  address  to  Dr.  Hoxton,  he  heard  the  unwelcome  sound  of  a  ring 
at  the  bell,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  a  note  was  brought  to  him. 

'  Tell  Adams  to  get  the  gig  ready — I'll  let  him  know  whether 
he  is  to  go  with  me.' 

And,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  Doctor  opened  Norman's  door,  and 
found  him  dressed,  and  standing  by  the  window,  reading.  '  What, 
up  already,  Norman  ?  I  came  to  tell  you  that  our  alFaii-s  must  wait 
till  the  afternoon.  It  is  very  provoking,  for  Hoxton  may  be  gone 
out,  but  Mr.  Lake's  son,  at  Groveswood,  has  an  attack  on  the  head, 
and  I  must  go  at  once.  It  is  a  couple  of  dozen  miles  off  or  more. 
I  have  hardly  ever  been  there,  and  it  may  keep  me  all  day.' 

'  Shall  you  go  in  the  gig  ?  Shall  I  drive  you  ? '  said  Norman, 
looking  rather  blank. 

'  That's  what  I  thought  of,  if  you  like  it.  I  thought  you  would 
sooner  be  out  of  the  way.' 

'  Thank  you — yes,  papa.  Shall  I  come  and  help  you  to  finish 
dressing  ? ' 

'  Yes,  do,  thank  you  ;  it  will  hasten  matters.  Only,  first  order 
in  some  breakfast.  What  makes  you  up  so  early  ?  Have  not  you 
slept  ? ' 

'  Not  much — it  has  been  such  a  hot  night.' 

'  And  you  have  a  head-ache.  Well,  we  will  find  a  cure  for  that 
before  the  day  is  over.     I  have  settled  what  to  say  to  old  Hoxton.' 

Before  another  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed,  they  were  driving 
through  the  deep  lanes,  the  long  grass  thickly  laden  with  morning 
dew,  which  beaded  the  webs  of  the  spiders,  and  rose  in  clouds  of 
mist  under  the  infiuence  of  the  sun's  rays.  There  was  stillness  in 
the  air  at  first,  then  the  morning  sounds,  the  laborer  going  forth,  the 
world  wakening  to  life,  the  opening  houses,  the  children  coming  out 
to  school.  In  spite  of  the  tumult  of  feeling,  Norman  could  not  but 
be  soothed  and  refreshed  by  the  new  and  fair  morning  scene,  and 
both  minds  quitted  the  school  politics,  as  Dr.  May  talked  of  past 
enjoyment  of  walks  or  drives  home  in  early  dawn,  the  more  delicious 
after  a  sad  watch  in  a  sick  room,  and  told  of  the  fair  sights  he  had 
seen  at  such  unwonted  hours. 

They  had  far  to  go,  and  the  heat  of  the  day  had  come  on  before 
they  entered  the  place  of  their  destination.  It  was  a  woodland 
village,  built  on  a  nook  in  the  side  of  the  hill,  sloping  greenly  to 
the  river,  and  shut  in  by  a  white  gate,  which  seemed  to  gather  all  in 
one,  the  little  low  old-fashioned  church,  its  yard,  shaded  with  trees, 
and  enclosed  by  long  white  rails ;  the  parsonage,  covered  with 
climbing  plants  and  in  the  midst  of  a  gay  garden ;  and  one  or  two 
cottages.  The  woods  cast  a  cool  shadow,  and,  in  the  meadows  by 
the  river,  rose  cocks  of  new-made  hay  ;  there  was  au  air  of  abiding 


210  riiK  DAISY  niAix. 

serenity  about  the  whole  place,  save  that  there  stood  an  old  man 
by  the  gate,  evidently  watching  for  the  physician's  carriage;  and 
where  the  sun  foil  on  that  parsonage-house  was  a  bedroom  window 
wide  open,  with  the  curtains  drawn. 

'  Tliank  Heaven,  you  are  come,  Sir,'  said  the  old  man — '  he  is 
fearfully  bad.' 

Norman  knew  3'oung  Lake,  who  had  been  a  senior  boy  when  he 
first  went  to  school,  was  a  Kandall  scholar,  and  had  borne  an 
excellent  character,  and  highly  distinguished  himself  at  the  Uni- 
versity. And  now,  by  all  accounts,  he  seemed  to  be  dying — in  the 
height  of  honour  and  general  esteem.  Dr.  May  went  into  the 
house,  the  old  man  took  the  horse,  and  Norman  lingered  under  the 
trees  in  the  church-yard,  watching  the  white  curtains  now  and  then 
puffed  by  the  fitful  summer  breeze,  as  he  lay  on  the  turf  in  the 
shade,  under  the  influence  of  the  gentle  sadness  around,  resting, 
mind  and  body,  from  the  tossing  tumultuous  passionate  sensations 
that  had  kept  him  restless  and  miserable  through  the  hot  night. 

He  waited  long — one  hour,  two  hours  had  passed  away,  but  he 
was  not  impatient,  and  hardly  knew  how  long  the  time  had  been 
before  his  father  and  Mr.  Lake  came  out  of  the  house  together,  and, 
after  they  parted.  Dr.  May  summoned  him.  He  of  course  asked 
first  for  the  patient.  '  Not  quite  so  hopeless  as  at  first,'  and  the 
reasons  for  having  been  kept  so  long  were  detailed,  with  many 
circumstances  of  the  youth's  illness,  and  the  parents'  resignation, 
by  which  Dr.  jMay  was  still  too  deeply  touched  to  have  room  in  his 
mind  for  anything  besides. 

They  wei'e  more  than  half-way  home,  and  a  silence  had  succeeded 
the  conversation  about  the  Lake  family,  when  Norman  spoke : 

'  Papa,  I  have  been  thinking  about  it,  and  I  believe  it  would  be 
better  to  let  it  alone,  if  you  please.' 

'  Not  apply  to  Dr.  Iloxton  ! '  exclaimed  his  father. 

'  Well,  I  think  not.  I  have  been  considering  it,  and  it  does 
hardly  seem  to  me  the  right  thing.  You  see,  if  I  had  not  you 
close  at  hand,  this  could  never  be  explained,  and  it  seems  rather 
hard  upon  Anderson,  who  has  no  father,  and  the  other  fellows,  who 
have  theirs  further  off — ' 

'  llight,  Norman,  that  is  what  my  father  before  mc  always  said, 
and  the  way  I  have  always  acted  myself;  much  better  let  a  few 
trifles  go  on  not  just  as  one  would  wish,  than  be  for  ever  interfering, 
iiut  I  really  think  this  is  a  case  for  it,  and  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  let  yourself  be  influenced  by  the  fear  of  any  party-spirit.' 

'  It  is  not  only  that,  papa — I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
to-day,  and  there  are  otiier  reasons.  Of  course  I  should  wish  Dr. 
Hoxton  to  know  that  I  spoke  the  trutli  about  that  walk,  and  I  hope 
you  will  let  him  know,  as  I  appealed  to  you.  But,  on  cooler 
thoughts,  I  don't  believe  Dr.  Hoxton  could  seriously  suspect  me  of 
Buch  a  thing  as  that,  and   it  was  not   on   that  ground  that  I  am 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN".  217 

turned  down,  but  that  I  did  not  keep  up  sufficient  discipline,  and 
allowed  the  outrage  as  he  calls  it.  Now,  you  know,  that  is,  after  a 
fashion,  true.  If  I  had  not  gone  on  like  an  ass  the  other  day,  and 
incited  them  to  pull  down  the  fences,  they  would  not  have  done  it 
aftei\vards,  and  perhaps,  I  ought  to  have  kept  on  guard  longer.  It 
was  my  fault,  and  we  can't  deny  it.' 

Dr.  May  made  a  restless,  reluctant  movement.  '  Well,  well,  I 
suppose  it  was — but  it  was  just  as  much  Harvey  Anderson's — and 
is  he  to  get  the  scholarship  because  he  has  added  meanness  to  the 
rest  ? ' 

■  '  He  was  not  Dux,'  said  Norman,  with  a  sigh.  '  It  was  more 
shabby  than  I  thought  was  even  in  him.  But  I  don't  know  that 
the  feeling  about  him  is  not  one  reason.  There  has  always  been  a 
rivalry  and  bitterness  between  us  two,  and  if  I  were  to  get  the 
upper  hand  now,  by  means  not  in  the  usual  course,  such  as  the 
fellows  would  think  ill  of,  it  would  be  worse  than  ever,  and  I  should 
always  feel  guilty  and  ashamed  to  look  at  him.' 

'  Over-refining,  Norman,'  muttered  Dr.  May. 

'Besides,  don't  you  remember,  when  his  father  died,  how  glad 
you  and  everyone  were  to  get  him  a  nomination,  and  it  was  said 
that  if  he  gained  a  scholarship,  it  would  be  such  a  relief  to  poor 
Mrs.  Anderson  ?  Now  he  has  this  chance,  it  does  seem  hard  to 
deprive  her  of  it.     I  should  not  like  to  know  that  I  had  done  so.' 

*  Whew  ! '  the  Doctor  gave  a  considering  whistle. 

'  You  could  not  make  it  straight,  papa,  without  explaining 
about  the  dealing  with  Ballhatchet,  and  that  would  be  unfair  to 
them  all,  even  the  old  rogue  himself;  for  I  promised  to  say  nothino- 
about  former  practices,  as  long  as  he  did  not  renew  them.' 

'  Well !  I  don't  want  to  compromise  you,  Norman.  You  know 
your  own  ground  best,  but  I  don't  like  it  at  all.  You  don't  know 
the  humiliation  of  disgrace.  Those  who  have  thought  highly  of 
you,  now  tliinking  you  changed — I  don't  know  how  to  bear  it  for 
you.' 

'  I  don't  mind  anything  while  you  trust  me,'  said  Norman, 
eagerly ;  '  not  much  I  mean,  except  Mr.  Wilmot.  You  must  judge, 
papa,  and  do  as  you  please.' 

'  No,  you  must  judge,  Norman.  Your  confidence  in  me  ought 
not  to  be  a  restraint.  It  has  always  been  an  understood  thing  that, 
what  you  say  at  home  is,  as  if  it  had  not  been  said,  as  regards  my 
dealings  with  the  masters.' 

'  I  know,  papa.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  brought  me  to  this.  I 
tumbled  about  all  night  in  a  rage,  when  I  thought  how  they  had 
served  me,  and  of  Iloxton's  believing  it  all,  and  how  he  might  only 
half  give  in  to  your  representation,  and  then  I  gloried  in  Anderson's 
coming  down  from  his  height,  and  being  seen  in  his  true  colours. 
So  it  went  on  till  morning  came,  and  I  got  up.  You  know  you 
gave  me  my  mother's  little  Thomas  a  Kempis.  I  always  read  a 
Vol.  I.— 10 


218  TIIE   DAISY    ClIAIX. 

bit  every  uioriiing.  To-day  it  was,  "  Of  four  things  that  brina 
much  inward  peace."     And  what  do  you  think  they  were? 

'•  13c  desirous,  my  sou,  to  do  the  will  of  another  rather  than 
thine  own. 

"  Choose  always  to  have  less  rather  than  more, 

'•  Seek  alftays  the  lowest  place,  and  to  bo  inferior  to  everyona 

"Wish  always  and  pray  that  the  will  of  God  may  be  wholly 
fulfilled  in  thee." 

'  I  liked  them  the  more,  because  it  was  just  like  her  last  readina 
with  us,  and  like  that  letter. — AVcll,  then  I  wondered  as  I  lay  on 
the  grass  at  Groveswood,  whether  she  would  have  thought  it  best 
for  me  to  be  reinstated,  and  I  found  out  that  I  should  have  been 
rather  afraid  of  what  you  might  say  when  she  had  talked  it  over 
with  you.' 

Dr.  May  smiled  a  little  at  the  simplicity  with  which  this  last 
was  said,  but  his  smile  ended  in  one  of  his  heavy  sighs.  '  So  you 
took  her  for  your  counsellor,  my  boy.  That  was  the  way  to  find 
out  what  was  right.' 

'  Well,  there  was  something  in  the  place,  and,  in  watching  poor 
Lake's  windows,  that  made  me  not  able  to  dwell  so  much  on  getting 
on,  and  having  prizes  and  scholarships.  I  thouglit  that  caring  for 
those  had  been  driven  out  of  me,  and  you  know  I  never  felt  as  if  it 
were  my  right  when  I  was  made  Dux ;  but  now  I  find  it  is  all 
come  back.  It  does  not  do  for  mo  to  be  first ;  I  have  been  what 
she  callei  elated,  and  been  more  peremptory  than  need  with  the 
lower  boys,  and  gone  on  in  my  old  way  with  llichard,  and  so  I 
suppose  this  disgrace  has  come  to  punish  me.  I  wish  it  were  not 
disgrace,  because  of  our  name  at  school,  and  because  it  will  vex 
Harry  so  muck ;  but  since  it  is  come,  considering  all  things,  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  struggle  to  justify  myself  at  other  people's  ex- 
pense.' 

His  eyes  were  so  dazzled  with  tears,  that  he  could  hardly  sec  to 
drive,  nor  did  his  father  speak  at  first.  '  I  can't  say  anything 
against  it,  Norman,  but  I  am  sorry,  and  one  thing  more  you  should 
consider.  If  Dr.  lloxton  should  view  this  absurd  business  in  the 
way  he  seems  to  do,  it  will  stand  in  your  way  for  ever  in  testi- 
monials, if  you  try  for  anything  else.' 

'  Do  you  think  it  will  interfere  with  my  having  a  Confirmation 
ticket  ? ' 

'  Why  no,  I  should  not  think — such  a  boyish  escapade  could  be 
no  reason  for  refusing  you  one.' 

'  Very  well  then,  it  had  better  rest.  If  there  should  be  any 
difSculty  aljout  my  being  Confirmed,  of  course  we  will  explain  it.' 

'  I  wish  every  one  showed  themselves  as  well  prepared !' half- 
muttered  the  Doctor ;  then,  after  long  musing,  '  well,  Norman,  I 
give  up  the  scholarship.  Poor  Mr.'*.  Anderson  wants  it  more  than 
we  do,  and  if  the  boy  is  a  shabby  fellow,  the  more  he  wants  a  decent 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  219 

education.  But  what  do  you  say  to  this  ?  I  make  Hoston  do  you 
full  justice,  and  reinstate  you  in  your  proper  place,  and  then  I  take 
you  away  at  once — send  you  to  a  tutor — anything,  till  the  end  of 
the  long  vacation.' 

'Thank  you,'  said  Norman,  pausing;  '  I  don't  know,  papa.  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  think  it  would  hardly  do.  You 
would  be  uncomfortable  at  seeming  to  quarrel  with  Dr.  Hoxton, 
and  it  would  be  hardly  creditable  for  me  to  go  off  in  anger.' 

'  You  are  right,  I  believe,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  You  judge  wisely, 
though  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  ask  it  of  you.  But  what  is 
to  become  of  the  discipline  of  the  school  ?  Is  that  all  to  go  to  the 
dog's  ?  ' 

'  I  could  not  do  anything  with  them  if  I  were  restored  in  this 
way;  they  would  be  more  set  against  me.  It  is  bad  enough  as  it 
is,  but,  even  for  my  own  peace,  I  believe  it  is  better  to  leave  it  alone. 
All  my  comfort  in  school  is  over,  I  know !  '  and  he  sighed  deeply. 

'  It  is  a  most  untoward  business ! '  said  the  Doctor.  '  I  am  very 
sorry  your  school-days  should  be  clouded — but  it  can't  be  helped, 
and  you  will  work  yourself  into  a  character  again.  You  are  full 
young,  and  can  stay  for  the  next  Randall.' 

Norman  felt  as  if,  while  his  father  looked  at  him  as  he  now  did, 
the  rest  of  the  world  were  nothing  to  him ;  but,  perhaps,  the  driving 
past  the  school  brought  him  to  a  different  mind,  for  he  walked  into 
the  house  slowly  and  dejectedly. 

He  told  his  own  story  to  Ethel,  in  the  garden,  not  without  much 
difficulty,  so  indignant  were  her  exclamations  ;  and  it  was  impossible 
to  make  her  see  that  his  father's  interference  would  put  him  in  an 
awkward  position  among  the  boys.  She  would  argue  vehemently 
that  she  could  not  bear  Mr.  Wilmot  to  think  ill  of  him,  that  it  was 
a  great  shame  of  Dr.  Hoxton,  and  that  it  was  dreadful  to  let  such  a 
boy  as  Harvey  Anderson  go  unpunished.  '  I  really  do  think  it  is 
quite  wrong  of  you  to  give  up  your  chance  of  doing  good,  and  leave 
him  in  his  evil  ways  ! '  That  was  all  the  comfort  she  gave  Norman, 
and  she  walked  in  to  pour  out  a  furious  grumbling  upon  Margaret. 

Dr.  May  had  been  telling  the  elder  ones,  and  they  were  in  con- 
versation after  he  had  left  them — Margaret  talking  with  animation, 
and  Flora  sitting   over  her  drawing,  uttering  reluctant   assents. 
Has  he  told  you,  poor  fellow  ?  '  asked  Margaret. 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel.     '  Was  there  ever  such  a  shame  ?  ' 

'  That  is  just  what  I  say,'  observed  Flora.  '  I  cannot  see  why 
the  Andersons  are  to  have  a  triumph  over  all  of  us.' 

'I  used  to  think  Harvey  the  best  of  the  two,'  said  Ethel.  '  Now, 
I  think  he  is  a  great  deal  the  worst.  Taking  advantage  of  such  a 
mistake  as  this !     How  will  he  ever  look  Norman  in  the  face.' 

'  Really,'  said  Margaret,  '  I  see  no  use  in  aggravating  ourselves 
by  talking  of  the  Andersons.' 


220  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

*  I  can't  think  how  papa  can  consent,'  proceeded  Flora.  '  I  aui 
sure,  if  I  were  in  his  place,  I  should  not !  ' 

'  Papa  is  so  much  pleased  with  dear  Norman's  behaviour,  that  it 
quite  makes  up  for  all  the  disappointment,'  said  Margaret.  '  Besides, 
lie-  is  very  much  obliged  to  him  in  one  way ;  he  would  not  have 
liked  to  have  to  battle  the  matter  with  Dr.  Hoxton.  He  spoke  of 
Norman's  great  good  judgment.' 

*,Ycs,  Norman  can  persuade  papa  to  anything,'  said  Flora. 

*  Yes,  I  wish  papa  had  not  yielded,' said  EtheL  '  It  would 
have  been  just  as  noble  in  dear  Norman,  and  wc  should  not  have 
the  apparent  disgrace.' 

'  Perhaps  it  is  best  as  it  is,  after  all,'  said  Flora. 

'  Why,  how  do  you  mean  ?  '  said  Ethel. 

'  I  think  very  likely  things  might  have  come  out.  Now,  don't 
look  furious,  Ethel.  Indeed,  I  can't  help  it,  but  really  I  don't 
think  it  is  explicable  why  Norman  should  wish  to  hu.^h  it  up,  unless 
there  were  something  behind  ! ' 

'  Flora  ! '  cried  Ethel,  too  much  shocked  to  bring  out  another 
word. 

'  If  you  arc  unfortunate  enough  to  have  such  suspicions,'  said 
Margaret,  quietly,  '  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  be  silent.' 

'  As  if  you  did  not  know  Norman  ! '  stammered  Ethel. 

'  Well,'  said  Flora,  '  I  don't  wish  to  think  so.  You  know  I  did 
not  hear  Norman  himself,  and  when  papa  gives  his  vehement  ac- 
counts of  things,  it  always  puzzles  us  of  the  cooler-minded  sort.' 

'  It  is  as  great  a  shame  as  ever  I  heard  ! '  cried  Ethel,  recovering 
her  utterance.  ''Who  would  you  trust,  if  not  your  own  father  and 
brother  ? ' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  said  Flora,  not  by  any  means  wishing  to  displease 
her  sisters.  '  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  excess  of  generosity,  it 
is  sure  to  be  among  ourselves.  I  only  know  it  does  not  suit  me. 
It  will  make  us  all  uncomfortable  whenever  we  meet  the  Andersons 
or  Mr.  Wilmot,  or  anyone  el.se,  and  as  to  such  tenderness  to  Harvey 
Anderson,  I  think  it  is  thrown  awa}'.' 

'  Thrown  away  on  the  object,  perhaps,'  said  3Iargaret,  '  but  not 
in  Norman.' 

'  To  be  sure,'  broke  out  Ethel.  '  Better  be  than  seem  !  Oh, 
dear !  I  am  sorry  I  was  vexed  Avith  dear  old  June  when  he  told  me. 
I  had  rather  have  him  now  than  if  he  had  gained  everything,  and 
everyone  was  praising  liim — that  I  had !  Harvey  Anderson  is 
welcome  to  be  Dux  and  l^andall  scholar  for  what  I  care,  while 
NormjMi  is — while  he  is,  just  what  wc  thought  of  the  last  time  we 
read  that  Gospel — you  know,  Margaret?  ' 

'  He  is — that  he  is,'  said  Margaret,  '  and  indeed,  it  is  most 
beautiful  to  see  how  what  has  happened  has  brought  him  at  once  to 
what  she  wished,  when,  perhaps,  otherwise  it  would  have  been  a 
work  of  lonir  linie.' 


rilE   DAISY   CHAIX.  221 

Ethel  was  entirely  consoled.  Flora  thought  of  tie  words  ^  UU 
exalUe'  and  considered  herself  alone  to  have  sober  sense  enouo-h 
to  see  things  in  a  true  light — not  that  she  went  the  length  of  believ- 
ing that  Xornian  had  any  underhand  motives,  but  she  thought  it 
very  discreet  in  her  to  think  a  prudent  father  would  not  have  been 
satisfied  with  sucji  a  desire  to  avoid  investigation. 

Dr.  I\Iay  would  not  trust  himself  to  enter  on  the  subject  with 
Dr.  Hoxton  in  conversation ;  he  only  wrote  a  note. 

'  Dear  Dr.  Hoxton,  '  Jnne  16th. 

'  My  son  has  appealed  to  me  to  confirm  his  account  of  himself  on  Thurs- 
day evening  last.  I  therefore  distinctly  state  that  he  came  in  at  half-past  nine, 
with  liis  hands  full  of  plants  from  the  river,  and  that  he  then  went  out  again,  hy 
ray  desire,  to  look  for  his  little  brother. 

'  Yours,  Ten'  trulv, 

''  E.  Mat.' 

A  long  answer  came  in  return,  disclaiming  all  doubt  of  Xorman's 
veracity,  and  explaining  Dr.  Boston's  grounds  for  having  degraded 
him.  There  had  been  misconduct  in  the  school,  he  said,  for  some 
time  past,  and  he  did  not  consider  that  it  was  any  very  serious 
reproach  to  a  boy  of  Norman's  age,  that  he  had*  not  had  weight 
enough  to  keep  up  his  authority,  and  had  been  carried  away  by  the 
general  feeling.  It  had  been  necessary  to  make  an  example  for  the 
sake  of  principle,  and  though  very  sorry  it  should  have  fallen  on 
one  of  such  high  promise  and  general  good  conduct.  Dr.  Hoxton 
trusted  that  it  would  not  be  any  permanent  injury  to  his  prospects, 
as  his  talents  had  raised  him  to  his  former  position  in  the  school  so 
much  earlier  than  usual. 

'  The  fact  was,'  said  Dr.  3Iay,  '  that  old  Hoxton  did  it  in  a  pas- 
sion, feeling  he  must  punish  somebody,  and  now,  finding  there's  no 
uproar  about  it,  he  begins  to  be  sorry.  I  won't  answer  this  note. 
I'll  stop  after  church  to-morrow  and  shake  hands,  and  that  will 
show  we  don't  bear  malice.' 

"What  Mr.  Y\"ilmot  might  think,  was  felt  by  all  to  aflfect  them 
more  nearly.  Ethel  wanted  to  hear  that  he  declared  his  complete 
conviction  of  Xorman's  innocence,  and  was  disappointed  to  find  that 
he  did  not  once  allude  to  the  subject.  She  was  only  consoled  by 
Margaret's  conjecture  that,  perliaps,  he  thought  the  head-master 
had  been  hasty,  and  could  not  ventui-e  to  say  so — he  saw  into 
people's  characters,  and  it  was  notorious  that  it  was  just  what  Dr. 
Hoxton  did  not. 

Tom  had  spent  the  chief  of  that  Saturday  in  reading  a  novel 
borrowed  from  Axworthy,  keeping  out  of  sight  of  everyone.  All 
Sunday  he  avoided  Korman  more  scrupulously  than  ever,  and  again 
on  Monday.  That  day  was  a  severe  trial  to  Xorman ;  the  taking 
the  lower  place,  and  the  sense  that,  excel  as  much  as  ever  he  might 
in  his  studies,  it  would  not  avail  to  restore  him  to  his  former  place 


222  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

were  more  unpleasant,  -when  it  came  to  the  point  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. 

He  saw  tlic  cold  manner,  so  different  from  the  readiness  vf'iih 
which  his  tasks  had  always  been  met,  certain  as  they  were  of  being 
well  done ;  he  found  himself  among  the  common  herd  whom  he  had 
passed  so  triumphantly,  and,  for  a  little  while,  he  had  no  heart  to 
exert  himself 

This  was  conquered  by  the  strong  will  and  self-rebuke  for  hav- 
ing merely  craved,  for  applause,  but,  in  the  play-ground,  he  found 
himself  still  alone — the  other  boys  who  had  been  raised  by  his  fall, 
shrank  from  intercourse  with  one  whom  they  had  injured  by  their 
silence,  and  the  Andersons,  who  were  wont  to  say  the  Mays  carried 
every  tale  home,  and  who  still  almost  expected  interference  from 
Dr.  May,  hardly  believed  their  victory  secure,  and  the  younger  one, 
at  least,  talked  spitefully,  and  triumphed  in  tlie  result  ot  May's 
meddling  and  troublesome  over  strictness.  '  Such  prigs  always 
come  to  a  downfall,'  was  the  sentiment. 

Norman  found  himself  left  out  of  everything,  and  stood  dis- 
pirited and  weary  on  tlie  bank  of  the  river,  wisliing  for  Harry, 
wishing  for  Cheviot,  wishing  tliat  he  had  been  able  to  make  a  friend 
who  would  stand  by  him,  thinking  it  could  not  be  worse  if  he  had 
let  his  father  reinstate  him — and  a  sensation  of  loneliness  and  in- 
justice hung  heavy  at  his  heart. 

His  first  interruption  was  a  merry  voice.  '  I  say,  June,  there's 
no  end  of  river  cray-fish  under  that  bank,'  and  Larkins'  droll  face 
was  looking  up  at  him,  from  that  favourite  position,  half-stooping, 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  his  expression  of  fun  trying  to  conceal  hi- 
real  anxiety  and  sympathy. 

Norman  turned  ani  smiled,  and  looked  for  tlie  cray-fish,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  became  aware  of  Hector  Erncsclifle  watching  for  an 
opportunity  to  say,  '  I  have  a  letter  from  Alan.'  He  knew  they 
wanted,  as  far  as  littk  boys  ventured  to  seek  after  one  so  much 
their  elder,  to  show  themselves  his  friends,  and  he  was  grateful ;  he 
roused  himself  to  hear  about  Alan's  news,  and  found  it  was  impor- 
tant— his  great  friend.  Captain  Gordon,  had  got  a  ship,  and  hoped 
to  be  able  to  take  him,  and  this  might  lead  to  Harry's  going  with 
him.  Then  Norman  applied  himself  to  the  capture  of  cray-fish, 
and  Larkins  grew  so  full  of  fun  and  drollery,  that  the  hours  of 
recreation  passed  off  less  gloomily  than  thjy  had  begun. 

If  only  his  own  brother  would  have  been  his  adherent !  But  he 
saw  almost  nothing  of  Tom.  Day  after  day  he  missed  him,  he  was 
off  before  liim  in  going  and  returning  from  school,  and  when  ho 
caught  a  sight  of  his  face,  it  looked  harassed,  pale,  and  miserable, 
stealing  anxious  glances  after  him,  yet  slirinking  from  his  eye. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  Norman  did  not  sec  him  mingling  with  his 
former  friends,  and  could  not  make  out  how  he  disposed  of  himself. 
To  be  thus  continually  shunned  by  his  own  brother,  even  when  tho 


THE   DAISY    CHAIX.  223 

general  mass  were  returning  to  ordinary  terms,  became  so  painful, 
that  Norman  was  always  on  the  watch  to  seek  for  one  more  con- 
versation with  him. 

He  caught  him  at  last  in  the  evening,  just  as  they  were  going 
home.  '  Tom,  why  are  you  running  away  ?  Come  with  me,'  said 
he,  authoritatively ;  and  Tom  obeyed  in  trembling. 

Norman  led  the  way  to  the  meads.  '  Tom,'  said  he, '  do  not  let 
this  go  on.  Why  do  you  serve  me  in  this  way  ?  You  surely  need 
not  turn  against  me,'  he  said,  with  pleading  melancholy  in  his  voice. 

It  was  not  needed.  Tom  had  flung  himself  upon  the  grass,  and 
was  in  an  agony  of  crying,  even  before  he  had  finished  the  words. 

'  Tom,  Tom !  what  is  the  matter  ?  Have  they  been  bullying 
you  again  ?  Look  up,  and  tell  me — what  is  it  ?  You  know  I  can 
stand  by  you  still,  if  you'll  only  let  me; '  and  Norman  sat. by  him 
on  the  grass,  and  raised  his  face  by  a  sort  of  force,  but  the  kind 
words  only  brought  more  piteous  sobs.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
they  diminished  enough  to  let  him  utter  a  word,  ^ut  Norman  went 
on  patiently  consoling  and  inquiring,  sure,  at  least,  that  here  had 
broken  down  the  sullenness  that  had  always  repelled  him. 

At  last  came  the  words,  '  Oh !  I  cannot  bear  it.  It  is  all  my 
doing ! ' 

'  What — how — you  don't  mean  this  happening  to  me  ?  It  is 
not  your  doing,  August — what  fancy  is  this  ?  ' 

'  0  yes,  it  is,'  said  Tom,  his  voice  cut  short  by  gasps,  the  re- 
mains of  the  sobs.  '  They  would  not  hear  me !  I  tried  to  tell 
them  how  you  told  them  not,  and  sent  them  home.  I  tried  to  tell 
about  Ballhatchet — but — but  they  wouldn't — they  said  if  it  had 
been  Harry,  they  would  have  attended — but  they  would  not  believe 
me.     Oh  !  if  Harry  was  but  here ! ' 

'  I  wish  he  was,'  said  Norman,  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart ; 
but  you  see,  Tom,  if  this  sets  you  on  always  telling  truth,  I  shan't 
think  any  great  harm  done.' 

A  fresh  burst  '  Oh  !  they  are  all  so  glad  !  They  say  such  things  ! 
And  the  Mays  were  never  in  disgrace  before.    0  Norman,  Norman  ! ' 

'  Never  mind  about  that, — '  began  Norman. 

'  But  you  would  mind,'  broke  in  the  boy,  passionately,  '  if  you 
knew  what  Anderson  junior,  and  Axworthy  say !  They  say  it 
eerves  you  right,  and  they  were  going  to  send  me  to  old  Ball- 
hatchet's  to  get  some  of  his  stuff  to  drink  confusion  to  the  mouth 
of  June,  and  all  pragmatical  meddlers ;  and  when  I  said  I  could 
not  go,  they  vowed  if  I  did  not,  I  should  eat  the  corks  for  them ! 
And  Anderson  junior  called  me  names,  and  licked  me.  Look  there.' 
He  showed  a  dark  blue-and-red  stripe,  raised  on  the  palm  of  hia 
hand.  '  I  could  not  write  well  for  it  these  three  days,  and  Hawes 
gave  me  double  copies  ! ' 

'  The  cowardly  fellows  ! '  exclaimed  Norman,  indignantly.  '  But 
you  did  not  go  ? 


224        '  'I'lIK   DAISY   CHAIN. 

*  No,  Anderson  senior  stopped  tbcm.  He  said  he  would  not 
have  the  Ballhatehet  business  begin  again.' 

'  That  is  one  comfort,'  said  Norman.  *  I  sec  he  does  not  dare 
not  to  keep  order.  ]Jut  if  you'll  only  stay  with  me,  August,  I'll 
take  care  they  don't  hurt  you.' 

'  Oh !  June  !  June  ! '  and  he  threw  himself  across  his  kind 
brother.  '  I  am  so  very  sorry  !  Oh  !  to  see  you  put  down — and 
hear  them !  And  you  to  lose  the  scholarship !  Oh,  dear  !  oh, 
dear  !  and  be  in  disgrace  with  them  all ! ' 

'  But,  Tom,  do  cheer  up.  It  is  nothing  to  be  in  such  distress 
at.  Papa  knows  all  about  it,  and  while  he  does,  I  d.m't  care  half 
BO  much.' 

'  O,  I  wish — I  wisli — ' 

'  You  see,  Tom,'  said  Norman,  *  after  all,  tliough  it  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  be  sorry  for  not  being  able  to  get  me  out  of  this  scrape, 
the  thing  one  wants  you  to  be  sorry  about,  is  your  own  affair.' 

'  I  wish  I  had  never  come  to  school !  I  wish  Anderson  would 
leave  me  alone !  It  is  all  his  fixult !  A  mean-spirited,  skulking, 
bullying—' 

'  Hush,  hush,  Tom,  he  is  bad  enough,  but  now  you  know  what 
he  is,  you  can  keep  clear  of  him  for  the  future.  Now  listen.  You 
and  I  will  make  a  fresh  start,  and  try  if  we  can't  get  the  Mays  to 
be  looked  on  as  they  were  when  Harry  was  here.  Let  us  mind  the 
rules,  and  get  into  no  more  mischief.' 

'  You'll  keep  me  from  Ned  Anderson  and  Axworthy  ? '  whispered 
Tom. 

'  Yes,  that  I  will.  And  you'll  try  and  speak  the  truth,  and  bo 
straightforward  ? ' 

'  I  will,  I  will,'  said  Tom,  worn  out  in  spirits  by  his  long  bond- 
age, and  glad  to  catch  at  the  hope  of  relief  and  protection. 

'  Then  let  us  come  home,'  and  Tom  put  his  hand  into  his 
brother's,  as  a  few  weeks  back  would  have  seemed  most  unworthy 
of  school-boy  dignity. 

Thenceforth  Tom  was  devoted  to  Norman,  and  kept  close  to 
him,  sure  that  the  instiut  he  was  from  under  his  wing,  his  former 
companions  would  fall  on  him  to  revenge  his  defection,  but  clinging 
to  hiiu  also  from  real  affection  and  gratitude.  Indolence  and  timidity 
were  the  true  root  of  what  had  for  a  time  seemed  like  a  positively 
bad  disposition ;  beneath,  there  was  a  warm  heart,  and  sense  of 
right,  which  had  been  almost  stifled  for  the  -time,  in  the  desire, 
from  moment  to  moment,  to  avoid  present  trouble  or  fear.  Under 
Norman's  care  his  better  self  had  freer  scope,  he  was  guarded  from 
immediate  terror,  and  kept  from  the  suggestions  of  the  worst  sort 
of  boys,  as  much  as  was  in  his  brother's  power;  and  the  looks  they 
cast  towards  him,  and  the  sly  torments  they  attempted  to  inflict, 
by  no  means  invited  him  back  to  them.  The  lessons,  where  he  had 
a  long  inveterate  habit  of  shuffling,  came  under  Norman's  eye  at 


THIC  DAISY   CHAIX.  223 

the  same  time.  He  always  prepared  them  in  his  presence,  instead 
of  in  the  most  secret  manner  possible,  and  with  all  Anderson's  ex- 
peditious modes  of  avoiding  the  making  them  of  any  use.  Norman 
sat  by,  and  gave  such  help  as  was  fiiir  and  just,  showed  him  how  to 
learn,  and  explained  diificulties,  and  the  ingenuity  hitherto  spent 
in  eluding  learning  being  now  directed  to  gaining  it,  he  began  to 
make  real  progress,  and  find  satisfaction  in  it.  The  comfort  of 
being  good  dawned  upon  him  once  more,  but  still  there  was  much 
to  contend  with ;  he  had  acquired  such  a  habit  of  prevarication, 
that,  if  by  any  means  taken  by  surprise,  his  impulse  was  to  avoid 
giving  a  straightforward  answer,  and  when  he  recollected  his  sin- 
cerity, the  truth  came  with  the  air  of  falsehood.  Moreover,  he  was 
an  arrant  coward,  and  provoked  tricks  by  his  manifest  and  unrea- 
sonable terrors.  It  was  no  slight  exercise  of  patience  that  Norman 
underwent,  but  this  was  the  interest  he  had  made  for  himself;  and 
the  recovery  of  the  boy's  attachment,  and  his  improvement,  though 
slow,  were  a  present  recompense. 

Ernescliffe,  Larkins,  and  others  of  the  boys,  held  fast  to  him, 
and  after  the  first  excitement  was  past,  all  the  rest  returned  to  their 
former  tone.  He  was  decidedly  as  much  respected  as  ever,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  regarded  with  more  favour  than  when  his  strictness 
was  resented.  And  as  for  the  discipline  of  the  school,  that  did  not 
suifer.  Anderson  felt  that,  for  his  own  credit,  he  must  not  allow 
the  rules  to  be  less  observed  than  in  May's  reign,  and  he  enforced 
them  upon  the  reluctant  and  angry  bo3-s,  with  whom  he  had  been 
previously  making  common  cause.  Dr.  Hoxton  boasted  to  the 
under-masters  that  the  school  had  never  been  in  such  good  order  as 
under  An  ierson,  little  guessing  that  this  was  but  reaping  the  fruits 
of  a  past  victory,  or  that  every  boy  in  the  whole  school  gave  the 
highest  place  in  their  esteem  to  the  deposed  Dux. 

T ;  Anderson,  Norman's  cordial  manner  and  ready  support,  were 
the  strangest  part  of  all,  only  explained  by  thinking  that  he  deemed 
it,  as  he  tried  to  do  himself,  meiely  the  fortune  of  war,  and  was 
sensible  of  no  injury. 

And,  for  Norman  himself,  when  the  first  shock  was  over,  and  he 
was  accustomed  to  the  change,  he  found  the  cessation  of  vigilance  a 
relief,  and  carried  a  lighter  heart  than  any  time  since  his  mother's 
death.  His  sisters  could  not  help  observing  that  there  was  less 
sadness  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  that  he  carried  his  head  higher, 
walked  with  freedom  and  elasticity  of  step,  tossed  and  flourished 
the  Daisy  till  she  shouted  and  crowed,  while  Margaret  shrank  at 
such  freaks ;  and,  though  he  was  not  much  of  a  laugher  himself, 
contributed  much  sport  in  the  way  of  bright  apposite  sayings  to  the 
home  circle. 

It  was  a  very  unexpected  mode  of  cure  for  depression  of  spirits, 
but  there  could  be  no  question  that  it  succeeded ;  and  when,  a  few 
Saturdays  after,  he  drove  Dr.  May  again  to  Groveswood  to  see  young 
Vol.  I.— 10* 


226  Tin:  daisy  chain. 


Mr.  Lake,  who  was  recovering,  he  brought  Margaret  home  a  whols 
pile  of  botanical  curiosities,  and  drew  his  fatlier  into  ar.  fmimated 
battle  over  natural  and  Linnpcan  S3stem8  which  kept  the  whole 
party  merry  with  the  pros  and  cons  every  evening  for  a  week. 


CIIAPTEIl    XXIII. 


'  Oh  !  the  golden-hearted  daieirs, 
Witneesed  there  before  my  youth, 

To  the  truth  of  thin??,  with  praises 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  truth." 

E.  B.  Bbq-wninc. 


'  Margaret,  see  here.' 

The  Doctor  threw  into  her  lap  a  letter,  which  made  her  cheeka 
light  up. 

Mr.  Ernescliffe  wrote  that  his  father's  friend.  Captain  Gor- 
ion,  having  been  appointed  to  the  frigate  Alcestis,  had  chosen  him 
as  one  of  his  lieutenants,  and  ofifored  a  nomination  as  naval  cadet 
for  his  brother.  He  had  replied  that  the  navy  was  not  Hector's 
destination,  but,  as  Captain  Gordon  had  no  one  else  in  view,  had 
prevailed  on  liim  to  pass  on  the  proposal  to  Harry  May. 

Alan  wrote  in  high  terms  of  his  captain,  declaring  that  he  es- 
teemed the  having  sailed  with  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  advantages 
he  had  ever  received,  and  adding,  that,  for  his  own  part,  Dr.  May 
needed  no  jiromise  from  him,  to  be  assured  that  he  would  watch 
over  Harry  like  his  own  brother.  It  was  believed  that  the  Alcestis 
was  destined  for  the  South  American  station. 

'  A  three  years'  business,'  said  Dr.  May,  with  a  sigh.  '  But  the 
thing  is  done,  and  this  is  as  good  as  we  can  hope.' 

'  Far  better  ! '  said  Margaret.  '  What  pleasure  it  must  have 
given  him  !  Dear  Harry  could  not  sail  under  more  favourable  cir- 
cumstances.' 

'No,  I  would  trust  to  Ernescliffe  as  I  would  to  Richard.  It  is 
kindly  done,  and  I  will  thank  him  at  once.  Where  does  he  date 
from  y ' 

'  From  Portsmouth.  lie  docs  not  say  whether  lie  has  seen 
Harry.' 

'  I  suppose  he  waited  for  ray  answer.  Suppose  I  inclose  a  note 
f  >r  him  to  give  to  Harry.  There  will  be  rapture  enough,  and  it  is 
a  pity  he  should  not  have  the  benefit  of  it.' 

The  Doctor  sat  down  to  write,  while  Margaret  worked  and 
mused,  perhaps  on  outfits  and  new  shirts — perhaps  on  Harry's  lion- 
locks,  beneath  a  Idue  cap  and  gold  band,  or,  perchance,  on  the  coral 
shoals  of  the  Pacific. 

It  was  one  of  the  quiet  afternoons,  when  all  the  rest  were  out, 
and  which  the  Doctor  and  his  daughter  especially  valued,  when  they 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  227 

were  able  to  spend  one  together  without  interruption.  _  Soon,  how- 
ever, a  ring  at  the  door  brought  an  impatient  exclamation  from  the 
Doctor ;  but  his  smile  beamed  out  at  the  words, '  Miss  Rivers.'  They 
were  great  friends ;  in  fact,  on  terms  of  some  mutual  sauciness, 
though  Meta  was,  as  yet,  far  less  at  home  with  his  daughters,  and 
came  in,  looking  somewhat  shy. 

^  Ah,  your  congeners  are  gone  out ! '  was  the  Doctor's  reception 
'  You  must  put  up  with  our  sober  selves.' 

'  Is  Flora  gone  far  ?  '  asked  Meta. 

'  To  Cocksmoor,'  said  Margaret.  '  I  am  very  sorry  she  has 
missed  you.' 

'  Shall  I  be  in  your  way  ? '  said  Meta,  timidly.  '  Papa  has  several 
things  to  do,  and  said  he  would  call  for  me  here.' 

'  Good  luck  for  Margaret,'  said  Dr.  May. 

'  So  they  are  gone  to  Cocksmoor  ! '  said  Meta.  '  How  I  envy 
them!' 

'  You  would  not,  if  you  saw  the  place,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  I  be- 
lieve Norman  is  very  angry  with  me  for  letting  ihem  go  near  it.' 

'  Ah  !  but  they  are  of  real  use  there  ! ' 

'  And  Miss  Meta  is  obliged  to  take  to  envying  the  black-hole  of 
Cocksmoor,  instead  of  being  content  with  the  eglantine  bowers  of 
Abbotstoke  !     I  commiserate  her ! '  said  the  Doctor. 

If  I  did  any  good  instead  of  harm  at  Abbotstoke  ! ' 

'  Harm  ! '  exclaimed  Margaret. 

'  They  went  on  very  well  without  me,'  said  Meta ;  '  but  ever  since 
I  have  had  the  class,  they  have  been  getting  naughtier  and  noiser 
every  Sunday ;  and,  last  Sunday,  the  prettiest  of  all — the  one  I 
liked  best,  and  had  done  everything  for — she  began  to  mimic  me — 
held  up  her  finger,  as  I  did,  and  made  them  all  laugh ! ' 

'  Well,  that  is  very  bad  ! '  said  Margaret;  'but  I  suppose  she  was 
a  very  little  one.' 

'  No,  a  quick,  clever  one,  who  knew  much  better,  about  nine 
years  old.  She  used  to  be  always  at  home  in  the  week,  dragging 
about  a  great  baby ;  and  we  managed  that  her  mother  should  aflbrd 
to  stay  at  home,  and  send  her  to  school.  It  seemed  such  a  pity  her 
cleverness  should  be  wasted.' 

The  Doctor  smiled.  '  Ah  !  depend  upon  it,  the  tyrant-baby  was 
the  best  disciplinarian.' 

Meta  looked  extremely  puzzled. 

'  Papa  means,'  said  Margaret,  '  that  if  she  was  inclined  to  bo 
conceited,  the  being  teased  at  home  might  do  her  more  good  than 
being  brought  forward  at  school.' 

*  I  have  done  everything  wrong,  it  seems,'  said  Meta,  with  a 
shade  of  what  the  French  call  depit.  *  I  thought  it  must  be  right 
and  good — but  it  has  only  done  mischief;  and  now  papa  says  they 
are  an  ungrateful  set,  and  that,  if  it  vexes  me,  I  had  better  have  no 
more  to  do  with  them ! ' 


228  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

'  It  does  not  vex  you  so  much  as  that,  I  hope,'  said  Margaret. 

'  0,  I  could  not  bear  that!  '  said  Meta;  '  but  it  is  so  dlfiereut 
from  what  I  thought ! ' 

'  Ah  !  you  had  an  Arcadia  of  good  little  girls  in  straw  hats,  such 
as  I  see  in  Blanche's  little  books,'  said  tlie  i)octor,  '  all  making  the 
young  lady  an  oracle,  and  doing  wrong — if  they  do  it  at  all — in  the 
Bimplest  way,  just  for  an  example  to  the  others.' 

'  Dr.  IMay  !  How  can  you  know  so  well  ?  But  do  you  really 
think  it  is  their  fault,  or  mine  ? ' 

'  Do  you  think  me  a  conjurer  ?  ' 

'  Well,  but  what  do  you  think  ?  ' 

'What  do  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Wilmot  think?  ' 

*  I  know  Mrs.  Wilmot  thinks  I  spoil  my  class.  She  spoke  to 
me  about  making  favourites,  and  sometimes  has  seemed  surprised 
at  things  which  1  have  done.  Last  Sunday  she  told  me  she  thought 
I  had  better  have  a  steadier  class,  and  I  know  whom  she  will  give 
nic — the  great  big,  stupid  ones,  at  the  bottom  of  the  first  class  !  I 
do  believe  it  is  only  out  of  good-nature  that  she  docs  not  tell  me 
not  to  teach  at  all.  I  have  a  great  mind  I  will  not ;  I  know  I  do 
nothing  but  harm.' 

'  AVhat  shall  you  say  if  I  tell  you  I  think  so  too  ? '  asked  tho 
Doctor. 

'  0,  Dr.  IMay  !  you  don't  really  ?  Now,  docs  he.  Miss  May  ?  I 
am  sure  I  only  want  to  do  them  good.  I  don't  know  what  I  can 
have  done.' 

Margaret  made  her  perceive  that  the  Doctor  was  smiling,  and 
she  changed  her  tone,  and  earnestly  begged  to  be  told  what  they 
thought  of  the  case ;  for  if  she  should  show  her  concern  at  home, 
her  father  and  governess  would  immediately  beg  her  to  cease  from 
all  connection  with  the  school,  and  she  did  not  feel  at  all  convinced 
that  Mrs.  Wilmot  liked  to  have  her  there.  Feeling  injured  by  the 
implied  accusation  of  mismanagement,  yet,  with  a  sense  of  its  truth, 
used  to  be  petted,  and  new  to  rebuffs,  yet  with  a  sincere  wish  to  act 
rightly,  she  was  much  perplexed  by  this,  her  first  reverse,  and  had 
come  partly  with  the  view  of  consulting  Flora,  though  she  had  fallen 
on  other  counsellors. 

'Margaret,  our  adviser  general,'  said  the  Doctor,  'what  do  you 
say?  Put  yourself  in  the  place  of  Mrs.  Charles  Wilmot,  and  say, 
shall  Miss  llivcrs  teach,  or  not  ?' 

'  I  had'rather  you  would,  papa.' 

*  Not  I — I  never  kept  school.' 

'Well,  then,  I  being  Mrs.  Wilmot,  should  certainly  be  mortified 
if  Miss  Bivers  deserted  me,  because  the  children  were  naughty.  I 
think,  I  think  I  had  rather  she  came  and  asked  me  what  she  had 
better  do.' 

'  And  you  would  answer  "  teach,"  for  fear  of  vexing  her,'  said 
Mcta 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  229 

'  1  should,  and  also  for  the  sake  of  letting  her  learn  to  teach.' 

'  The  point  where  onlj  trial  shows  one's  ignorance,'  said  Dr, 
May. 

'  But  I  don't  want  to  do  it  for  my  own  sake,'  said  Meta.  '  I  dc 
everything  for  my  own  sake  already.' 

'  For  theirs,  then,'  said  the  Doctor.  '  If  teaching  will  not  come 
by  nature,  you  must  serve  an  apprenticeship,  if  you  mean  to  be  of 
service  in  that  line.  Perhaps,  it  was  the  gift  that  the  fairies 
omitted.' 

'  But  will  it  do  any  good  to  them  ?  ' 

'  I  can't  tell ;  but  I  am  sure  it  would  do  them  harm  for  you  to 
give  it  up,  because  it  is  disagreeable.' 

'  Well,'  said  Meta,  with  a  sigh,,'  I'll  go  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Wilmot. 
I  could  not  bear  to  give  up  anything  that  seems  right,  just  now, 
because  of  the  Confirmation.' 

Margaret  eagerly  inquired,  and  it  appeared  that  the  Bishop  had 
given  notice  for  a  confirmation  in  August,  and  that  Mr.  Wilmot  was 
already  beginning  to  prepare  his  candidates,  whilst  Mr.  Ramsden, 
always  tardy,  never  gave  notice  till  the  last  moment  possible.  The 
hope  was  expressed  that  Harry  might  be  able  to  profit  by  this 
opportunity ;  and  Harry's  prospects  were  explained  to  Meta ;  then 
the  Doctor,  recollecting  something  that  he  wished  to  say  to  Mr. 
Kivers,  began  to  ask  about  the  chance  of  his  coming  before  the  time 
of  an  engagement  of  his  own. 

'  He  said  he  should  be  here  at  about  half-past  four,'  said  Meta. 
*  He  is  gone  to  the  station  to  inquire  about  the  trains.  Do  you 
know  what  time  the  last  comes  in  ? ' 

'  At  nine  forty-five,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  That  is  what  we  were  afraid  of.  It  is  for  Bellairs,  my  maid. 
Her  mother  is  very  ill  ani  she  is  afraid  she  is  not  properly  nursed. 
It  is  about  five  miles  from  the  Milbury  Station,  and  we  thought  of 
letting  her  go  with  a  day-ticket,  to  see  about  her.  She  could  go  in 
the  morning,  after  I  am  up ;  but  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done, 
for  she  could  not  get  back  before  I  dress  for  dinner.' 

Margaret  felt  perfectly  aghast  at  the  cool  tone,  especially  aftei 
what  had  passed. 

'  It  would  be  quite  impossible,'  said  the  Doctor.  *  Even  going  by 
the  eight  o'clock  train,  and  returning  by  the  last,  she  would  only 
aave  two  hours  to  spare — short  enough  measure  for  a  sick  mother.' 

'  Papa  means  to  give  her  whatever  she  ^ants  for  any  nurse  sho 
may  get.' 

*  Is  there  no  one  with  her  mother  now  V ' 

'  A  son's  wife,  who,  they  think,  is  not  kind.  Poor  Bellairs  was 
30  grateful  for  being  allowed  to  go  home.  I  wonder  if  I  could  dress 
for  once  without  her.' 

'  Do  you  know  old  Crabbe  ?  '  said  the  Doctor. 

'  The  dear  old  man  at  Abbotstoke  ?     0  yes,  of  course.' 


230  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

'  There  was  a  very  sad  case  in  Lis  family.  The  mother  was  dying 
of  a  lingering  illne.^,  when  the  son  met  with  a  bad  accident.  The 
only  daughter  was  a  lady's  maid,  and  could  not  be  spared,  though 
the  brother  was  half  crazy  to  see  her,  and  there  was  no  one  to  tend 
them  but  a  wretch  of  a  woman,  paid  by  the  parish.  The  poor 
fellow  kept  calling  for  his  sister  in  bis  delirium,  and,  at  last,  I  could 
not  help  writing  to  the  mistress.' 

'  Did  she  let  her  come  ? '  said  Meta,  her  cheek  glowing. 

'  As  a  great  favour,  she  let  her  set  out  by  the  mail  train,  after 
dressing  her  for  a  ball,  with  orders  to  return  in  time  for  net  toilette 
for  an  evening  party  the  next  day.' 

'  0,  I  remember,'  said  Margaret,  '  her  coming  here  at  five  in  tlie 
morning,  and  your  taking  her  home.' 

*  And  when  we  got  to  Abbotstoke,  the  brother  was  dead.  That 
parish  nurse  had  not  attended  to  my  directions,  and,  I  do  believe, 
was  the  cause  of  it.  The  mother  had  had  a  seizure,  and  was  in  the 
most  precarious  state. 

'  Surely  she  stayed  ! ' 

'  It  was  as  much  as  her  place  was  worth,'  said  the  Lector;  '  and 
her  wages  were  tlie  chief  maintenance  of  the  family.  So  she  had  to 
go  back  to  dress  her  mistress,  while  the  old  woman  lay  there,  wailing 
after  Betsy.  She  did  give  warning  then,  but,  before  the  month  was 
out,  the  mother  was  dead.' 

IMeta  did  not  speak,  and  Dr.  May  presently  rose,  saying,  he  should 
try  to  meet  Mr.  Kivers  in  the  town,  and  went  out.  Meta  sat 
thoughtful,  and.  at  last,  sighing,  said,  '  I  wonder  whether  Bellairs' 
mother  is  so  very  ill  ?  I  have  a  groat  mind  to  let  Susan  try  to  do 
my  hair,  and  let  Bellairs  stay  a  little  longer.  I  never  thought  of 
that.' 

'  I  do  noi  tliink  you  will  be  snrry,'  said  Margaret. 

'  Yes,  I  shall,  for  if  my  hair  docs  not  look  nice,  papa  will  not  be 
pleased,  and  there  is  aunt  Leonora  coming.  How  odd  it  will  be  to 
be  without  Bellairs !     I  will  ask  Mrs.  Larpent.' 

'  Oh,  yes  ! '  said  Margaret.  '  You  must  not  think  we  meant  to 
advise;  but  papa  has  seen  so  many  instances  of  distress,  from 
servants  not  spared  to  their  friends  in  illness,  that  he  feels  strongly 
on  the  subject.' 

'  And  I  really  might  have  been  as  cruel  as  that  woman ! '  said  Meta. 
'  Well,  I  hope  Mrs.  Bellairs  may  be  better,  and  able  to  spare  her 
daughter.     I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me  without  her.' 

'  1  think  it  will  have  been  a  satisfaction  in  oi  c  way,'  said 
Margaret. 

'  In  what  way  ? ' 

'  Don't  you  remember  what  you  began  by  complaining  of,  that  you 
eould  not  be  of  use  ?  Now  I  fancy  this  would  give  you  the  pleasure 
^f  undergoing  a  little  personal  inconvenience  for  the  good  of 
another.' 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  23] 

Meta  looked  liaif  puzzled,  half  thoughtful,  and  Margaret,  who 
was  a  little  uneasy  at  the  style  of  counsel  she  found  herself  giving^ 
changed  the  conversation. 

It  was  a  memorable  one  to  little  Miss  Rivers,  opening  out  to  her 
as  did  almost  all  her  meetings  "with  that  family,  a  new  scope  for 
thought  and  for  duty.  The  code,  to  which  she  had  been  brought 
up,  taught  that  servants  were  the  machines  of  their  employer's  con- 
venience. Good-nature  occasioned  much  kindliness  of  manner  and 
intercourse,  and  every  luxury  and  indulgence  was  aiforded  freely ; 
but  where  there  was  any  want  of  accordance  between  the  convenience 
of  the  two  parties,  there  was  no  question.  The  master  must  be  the 
first  object,  the  servants'  remedy  was  in  their  own  hands. 

Amiable  as  was  Mr.  Rivers,  this,  merely  from  indulgence  and 
want  of  reflection,  was  his  principle ;  and  his  daughter  had  only  been 
acting  on  it,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  till  the  feelings,  that  she 
had  never  thought  of,  were  thus  displayed  before  her.  These  were 
her  first  practical  lessons  that  life  was  not  meant  to  be  passed  in 
pleasing  ourselves,  and  being  good-natured  at  small  cost. 

It  was  an  efl"ort.  Meta  was  very  dependant,  never  having  been 
encouraged  to  be  otherwise,  and  Bellairs  was  like  a  necessary  of  life 
in  her  estimation;  but  strength  of  principle  came  to  aid  her  naturally 
kind-hearted  feeling,  and  she  was  pleased  by  the  idea  of  voluntarily 
■jndergoing  a  privation,  so  as  to  test  her  sincerity. 

So  when  her  father  told  her  of  the  inconvenient  times  of  the 
trains,  and  declared  that  Bellairs  must  give  it  up,  she  answered,  by 
proposing  to  let  her  sleep  a  night  or  two  there,  gaily  promised  to 
manage  very  well,  and  satisfied  him. 

Iler  maid's  grateful  looks  and  thanks  recompensed  her  when  she 
made  the  offer  to  her,  and  inspirited  her  to  an  energetic  coaxing  of 
Mrs.  Larpent,  who,  being  more  fully  aware  than  her  father,  of  the 
needfulness  of  th")  lady's  maid,  and  also  very  anxious  that  her  darling 
should  appear  to  the  best  advantage  before  the  expected  aunt, 
Lady  Leonora  Langdale,  was  unwilling  to  grant  more  than  one  night 
at  the  utmost. 

Meta  carried  the  day,  and  her  last  assurance  to  Bellairs  was,  that 
she  might  stay  as  long  as  seemed  necessary  to  make  her  mother 
comfortable.  » 

Thereupon  Meta  found  herself  more  helpful  in  some  matters  than 
she  had  expected,  but  at  a  loss  in  others.  Susan,  with  all  Mrs. 
I^arpent's  supervision,  could  not  quite  bring  her  dress  to  the  air  that 
was  so  pecTlliarly  graceful  and  becoming ;  and  she  often  caught  her 
papa's  eye,  looking  at  her  as  if  he  saw  something  amiss,  and  could 
not  discover  what  it  was.  Then  came  aunt  Leonora,  always  very 
kind  to  Meta,  but  the  dread  of  the  rest  of  the  household,  whom 
she  was  wont  to  lecture  on  the  proper  care  of  her  niece.  Miss  Rivera 
was  likely  to  have  a  considerable  fortune,  and  Lady  Leonora  intended 


232  .  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

her  to  be  a  very  fashionable  and  much  admired  young  lady,  uudor 
her  own  immediate  protection. 

Tlie  two  cousins,  Leonora  and  Agatha,  talked  to  her  ;  the  one  of 
her  balls,  tlie  other  of  her  music — patronized  her,  and  called  her 
their  good  little  cousin — while  they  criticised  the  stiff  set  of  those 
unfortunate  plaits  made  by  Susan,  and  laughed,  as  if  it  was  an 
unheard-of  concession,  at  Bellairs'  holiday. 

Nevertheless,  when  '  Honoured  Miss  '  received  a  note,  begging 
for  three  days'  longer  grace,  till  a  niece  should  come,  in  whom 
IJellairs  could  place  full  confidence,  she  took  it  on  herself  to  return 
free  consent.  Lady  Leonora  found  out  what  she  had  done,  and 
reproved  her,  telling  her  it  was  only  the  way  to  make  '  those  people  ' 
presume,  and  Mrs.  Larpcnt  was  also  taken  to  task;  but,  decidedly, 
Meta  did  not  regret  what  she  had  done,  though  she  felt  as  if  she 
had  never  before  known  how  to  appreciate  comfort,  when  she  onoc 
more  beheld  Bellairs  stationed  at  her  toilette  table. 

Meta  was  asked  about  her  friends.  She  could  not  mention  any- 
one but  Mrs.  Charles  Wilmot  and  the  Miss  Mays. 

'  Physician's  daughters ;  oh !  '  said  Lady  Leonora. 

And  she  proceeded  to  exhort  Mr.  Rivers  to  bring  his  daughter  to 
London,  or  its  neighbourhood,  where  she  might  have  masters,  and 
be  in  the  way  of  forming  intimacies  suited  to  her  connections. 

Mr.  llivers  dreaded  London — never  was  well  there,  and  did  not 
like  the  trouble  of  moving — while  Meta  was  so  attached  to  the 
Grange,  that  she  entreated  him  not  to  think  of  leaving  it,  and  greatly 
dreaded  her  aunt's  influence.  Lady  Leonora  did,  indeed,  allow  that 
the  Grange  was  a  ver}^  pretty  place ;  her  only  complaint  was,  the 
want  of  suitable  society  for  Meta ;  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  hor 
growing  accustomed — for  want  of  something  better — to  the  Vicar's 
wife,  and  the  pet  Doctor's  daughters. 

Flora  had  been  long  desirous  to  effect  a  regular  call  at  Abbotstoke, 
and  it  was  just  now  that  she  ^uccc^ded.  Mrs.  Charles  AVilmot's 
little  girl  was  to  have  a  birth-day  feast,  at  which  Mary,  Blanche, 
and  Aubrey  were  to  appear.  Flora  went  in  charge  of  them,  and  as 
soon  as  she  had  safely  deposited  them,  and  appointed  Mary  to  keep 
Aubrey  out  of  mischief,  she  walked  up  to  the  Grange,  not  a  whit 
daunted  by  tlie  report  of  the  very  fine  ladies,  who  were  astonishing 
the  natives  of  Abbotstoke. 

She  was  admitted,  and  found  herself  in  the  drawing-room,  with  a 
([uick  lively-looking  lady,  whom  she  perceived  to  be  Lady  Leonora, 
and  who  instantly  began  talking  to  her  very  civilly.  Flora  wa.s 
never  at  a  loss,  and  they  got  on  extremely  well ;  her  ease  and  self- 
possession,  without  forwardness,  telling  much  to  her  advantage. 
Msta  came  in,  delighted  to  see  her,  but,  of  course,  the  visit  resulted 
in  no  really  intimate  talk,  though  it  was  not  without  effect.  Flora 
declared  ]jady  Leonora  Langdale  to  be  a  most  charming  person ; 
and  Lady  Leonora,  on  her  side,  asked  Meta  who  was  that  very 


IIIE   DAISY    CHAIN.  233 

elegant  conversible  girl.  '  Flora  May,'  was  the  delighted  answer, 
now  that  the  aunt  had  committed  herself  by  commendation.  And 
she  did  not  retract  it ;  she  pronounced  Flora  to  be  something  quite 
out  of  the  common  way,  and  supposed  that  she  had  had  unusual 
advantages. 

Mr.  Rivers  took  care  to  introduce  to  his  sister-in-law,  Dr.  May, 
(who  would  fain  have  avoided  it,)  but  ended  by  being  in  his  turn 
pleased  and  entertained  by  her  brilliant  conversation,  which  she 
put  forth  for  him,  as  her  instinct  showed  her  that  she  was  talking 
to  a  man  of  high  ability.  A  perfect  gentleman  she  saw  him  to  be, 
and  making  out  some  mutual  connections  far  up  in  the  family  tree 
of  the  Maekenzies,  she  decided  that  the  May  family  were  an  acqui- 
sition, and  very  good  companions  for  her  niece  at  present,  Avhile  not 
yet  come  out. 

So  ended  the  visit,  with  this  great  triumph  for  Meta,  who  had  a 
strong  belief  in  Aunt  Leonora's  power  and  infallibility,  and  yet  had 
not  consulted  her  about  Bellairs,  nor  about  the  school  question. 

She  had  missed  one  Sunday's  school  on  account  of  her  aunt's 
visit,  but  the  resolution  made  beside  Margaret's  sofa  had  not  been 
forgotten.  She  spent  her  Saturday  afternoon  in  a  call  on  Mrs. 
Wilmot,  ending  with  a  walk  through  the  village ;  she  confessed  her 
ignorance,  apologized  for  her  blunders,  and  put  herself  under  the 
direction  which  once  she  had  fancied  too  strict  and  harsh  to  be 
followed. 

And  on  Sunday,  she  was  content  to  teach  the  stupid  girls,  and 
abstain  from  making  much  of  the  smooth-faced  engaging  set.  She 
.  thought  it  very  dull  vork,  but  she  could  feel  that  it  was  something 
not  done  to  please  herself;  and  whereas  her  father  had  feared  she 
would  be  dull  when  her  cousins  were  gone,  he  found  her  more 
joyous  than  ever. 

There  certainly  was  a  peculiar  happiness  about  Margaret  Rivers; 
her  vexations  were  but  ripples,  rendering  the  sunny  course  of  her 
life  more  sparkling,  and  each  exertion  in  the  way  of  goodness  was 
productive  of  so  much  present  joy,  that  the  steps  of  her  ladder 
seemed,  indeed,  to  be  of  diamonds. 

Her  ladder — for  she  was,  indeed,  mounting  upwards.  She  was 
very  earnest  in  her  Confirmation  preparation,  most  anxious  to  do 
right  and  to  contend  with  her  failings ;  but  the  struggle  at  present 
was  easy  ;  and  the  hopes,  joys,  and  incentives,  shone  out  more  and 
more  upon  her  in  this  blithe  stage  of  her  life. 

She  knew  there  was  a  dark  side,  but  hope  and  love  were  more 
present  to  her  tha:u  was  fear.  Happy  those  to  whom  such  young 
days  are  granted 


23i  THE   DAISY   CUAIN. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

'  It  is  the  generous  fpirit,  -who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tusks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  jilan  that  jilcased  his  childisli  tlionght, 
Whose  liigli  endeavors  are  an  inward  liglit. 
Making  the  jiath  before  liini  always  briglit' 

WoKDSWOIiTII. 

TiiE  liolicla3'.s  liad  commenced  about  a  week  ■nbcu  Harry,  now  diilj 
appointed  to  H.  M.  S.  Alcestis,  was  to  come  Lome  on  leave,  as  be 
proudly  expressed  it. 

A  glad  troop  of  brotbers  and  sisters,  with  the  Doctor  bimself, 
walced  up  to  the  station  to  meet  bim,  and  wbo  was  bappiest  when, 
from  tbc  window  was  tbrust  out  tbe  rosy  face,  with  tbe  gold  band  ? 
Mary  gave  sucb  a  sbrieK  and  leap,  tbat  two  passengers  and  one 
guard  turned  round  to  look  at  ber,  to  tbe  exti'cme  discomfiture  of 
Flora  and  Norman,  evidenced  by  one  by  a  grave  '  Mary  !  Mar}- ! ' 
by  the  other,  by  walking  off  to  the  extreme  end  of  tbe  platform,  and 
trying  to  look  as  if  be  did  not  belong  to  them,  in  which  he  was 
imitated  by  his  shadow,  Tom. 

Sailor  already,  rather  than  school-boy,  Harry  cared  not  for 
spectators;  his  bound  from  the  carriage  and  the  hug  between  him 
and  Mary  would  have  been  worthy  of  tbc  return  from  the  voyage 
The  next  greeting  was  for  his  father,  and  the  sisters  had  had  their 
share  by  the  time  the  two  brothers  thought  fit  to  return  from  their 
calm  walk  on  the  platform. 

Grand  was  it  to  sec  tbat  party  return  to  the  town — tbe  naval 
cadet,  with  his  arm  linked  in  Mary's,  and  Aubrey  clinging  to  his 
baud,  and  tbe  others  walking  behind,  admiring  him  as  he  turned 
bis  bright  face  every  moment  with  some  glad  question  or  answer, 
'  How  was  iNIargaret?  '  Oh,  so  much  better  ;  she  had  been  able  to 
walk  across  tbe  roou",  with  Norman's  arm  round  her — they  hoped 
she  vv>uld  soon  use  crutches — and  she  sat  up  more.  '  And  the 
baby  ?  '  More  charming  than  ever — four  teeth — would  soon  walk — 
such  a  darling  !  Then  came  '  my  dirk,  the  ship,  our  berth.'  '  Papa, 
do  ask  Mr.  Ernescliffe  to  come  here.     I  know  he  could  get  leave.' 

'  Mr.  Ernescliffe  !     You  used  to  call  him  Alan  ! '  said  Mary. 

'  Yes,  but  that  is  all  over  now.  You  forget  what  we  do  on 
board.     Captain  Gordon  himself  calls  me  Mr.  May  ! ' 

Some  laughed,  others  were  extremely  impressed. 

'Ha!  There's  Ned  Anderson  coming,'  cried  Mary.  'Now! 
Let  him  see  you,  Harry.' 

'What  matters  Ned  Anderson  to  me?'  said  Harry;  and,  with 
an  odd  mixture  of  sharae-faeedness  and  cordiality,  he  marched  full 
up  to  his  old  school-fellow,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  as  if  able,  in 
the  plenitude  of  his  officership,  to  afford  plenty  of  good-humored 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  235 

stlperio^it3^  Tom  had  meantime  subsided  out  cf  all  view.  But 
poor  Harry's  exultation  had  a  fall. 

'  Well ! '  graciously  inquired  '  Mr.  May,'  and  how  is  Harvey  ?  ' 

'  0  very  well.     We  are  expecting  him  home  to-morrow.' 

'  Where  has  he  been  ?  ' 

'To  Oxford,  about  the  Randall' 

Harry  gave  a  disturbed,  wondering  look  round,  on  seeing  Ed- 
ward's air  of  malignant  satisfaction.  He  saw  nothing  that  reassured 
him,  except  the  quietness  of  Norman's  own  fiice,  but  even  that 
altered  as  their  eyes  met.  Before  another  word  could  be  said, 
however,  the  Doctor's  hand  was  on  Harry's  shoulder. 

'  You  must  not  keep  him  now,  Ned,'  said  he — '  his  sister  has  not 
seen  him  yet.' 

And  he  moved  his  little  procession  onwards,  still  resting  on 
Harry's  shoulder,  while  a  silence  had  fallen  on  all,  and  even  the 
young  sailor  ventured  no  question.  Only  Tom's  lips  were  quiver- 
ing, and  Eth^l  had  squeezed  Norman's  hand.  '  Poor  Harry !  '  he 
muL'tered,  '  this  is  worst  of  all !     I  wish  we  had  written  it  to  him.' 

'  So  do  I  now,  but  we  always  trusted  it  would  come  right.  Oh  ! 
if  I  were  but  a  boy  to  flog  that  Edward  ! ' 

'  Hush,  Ethel,  remember  what  we  resolved.' 

They  were  entering  their  own  garden,  where,  beneath  the  shade 
of  the  tulip-tree,  Margaret  lay  on  her  couch.  Her  arms  were  held 
out,  and  Harry  threw  himself  upon  her,  but  when  he  rose  from  her 
caress,  Norman  and  Tom  were  gone. 

'  What  is  this  ? '  he  now  first  ventured  to  ask. 

'  Come  with  me,'  said  Dr.  May,  leading  the  way  to  his  study, 
where  he  related  the  whole  history  of  the  suspicion  that  Norman 
had  incurred.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  done  so  in  private,  for 
Harry's  indignation  and  grief  went  beyond  his  expectations ;  and 
when  at  last  it  appeared  that  Harvey  Anderson  was  actually  Randall 
scholar,  after  opening  his  eyes  with  the  utmost  incredulity,  and 
causing  it  to  be  a  second  time  repeated,  he  gave  a  gulp  or  two,  turned 
very  red,  and  ended  by  laying  his  head  on  the  table,  and  fairly 
sobbing  and  crying  aloud,  in  spite  of  dirk,  uniform,  %nd  manhood. 

'  Harry  !  why  Harry,  my  boy  !  We  should  have  prepared  you 
for  this,'  said  the  Doctor,  aftectionately.  '  We  have  left  off  breaking 
our  hearts  about  it.  I  don't  want  any  comfort  now,  for  having 
gold  instead  of  glitter;  though  at  first  I  was  as  bad  as  you.' 

'  0  if  I  had  but  been  there  ! '  said  Harry,  combating  unsuccess- 
fully with  his  tears. 

'  Ah  !  so  we  all  said,  Norman  and  all.  Your  word  would  have 
cleared  him — that  is,  if  you  had  not  been  in  the  thick  of  the  mis- 
chief    Ha  !  July,  should  not  you  have  been  on  the  top  of  the  wall  ?  ' 

'  I  would  have  stood  by  him,  at  least.  Would  not  I  have  given 
Axworthy  and  Anderson  two  such  black  eyes  as  they  could  not 


23(5  TIIK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

have  shown  in  bohool  for  a  week  ?     They  had  better  look  out ' 
cried  Ilarry,  savagely, 

'  AVliat !     An  officer  in  Her  Majesty's  service!     Eh,  ]Mr.  May  ? 

*  Don't,  papa,  don't.  Oh  !  I  thought  it  would  have  been  sc 
happy,  when  I  came  home,  to  see  Norman  Piaudall-scholar.  Oh! 
now  I  don't  care  for  the  ship,  nor  anything.' 

Again  Harry's  face  went  down  on  the  table. 

'  Come,  come,  Harry,'  said  Dr.  May,  pulling  off  the  spectacles 
that  had  become  very  dewy,  '  don't  let  us  make  fools  of  ourselves, 
or  they  will  think  we  are  crying  for  the  scholarship.' 

'  I  don't  care  for  the  scholarship,  but  to  have  June  turned  down 
— and  disgrace — ' 

'  What  I  care  for,  Harry,  is  having  Jiine  what  he  is,  and  ihat 
i  know  better  now.' 

'  He  is !  he  is — he  is  June  himself,  and  no  mistake ! '  cried 
Harry,  with  vehemence. 

'  The  prime  of  the  year,  is  not  it  ?  '  said  the  Doctor,  smiling,  as 
he  stroked  down  the  blue  sleeve,  as  if  he  thought  that  generous 
July  did  not  fall  far  short  of  it. 

'  That  he  is  ! '  exclaimed  Harry.  '  I  have  never  met  one  fellow 
like  him.' 

'  It  will  be  a  chance  if  you  ever  do,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  That  is 
better  than  scliolarships  ! ' 

'  It  should  have  been  both,'  said  Harry. 

'  Norman  thinks  the  disappointment  has  been  very  good  for 
him,'  said  the  Doctor.  'Pei-haps  it  made  him  what  he  ir  •7t:!W.  All 
success  is  no  discipline,  you  know.' 

Harry  looked  as  if  he  did  not  know. 

'  Perhaps  you  will  understand  better  by-and-by,  but  this  I  can 
tell  you,  Ilarry,  that  the  patient  bearing  of  his  vexation,  has  done 
more  to  renew  Norman's  spirits,  than  all  his  prosperity.  See  if  it 
has  not.  I  believe  it  is  harder  to  everyone  of  us,  than  to  him.  To 
Ethel,  especially,  it  is  a  struggle  to  be  in  charity  with  the  Ander- 
sons.' 

*  In  charity. '  repeated  Harry.  *  Papa  !  you  don't  want  us  to 
like  a  horrid,  sneaking,  mean-spirited  pair  like  those,  that  havi, 
used  Norman  in  that  shameful  way  ?  ' 

*  No,  certainly  not ;  I  only  want  you  to  feel  no  more  personal 
anger,  than  if  it  had  been  Cheviot,  or  some  indifferent  person,  that 
had  been  injured.' 

*  I  sliould  liave  hated  them  all  the  same  ! '  cried  Ilarry. 

*  If  it  is  all  the  same,  and  it  is  the  treachery  you  hate,  I  ask  no 
more,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  I  can't  help  it,  pajm,  I  can't !  If  I  were  to  meet  those  follows, 
do  you  think  I  could  shako  hands  with  them  ?  If  I  did  not  lick 
Ned  all  down  Minster-street,  he  might  think  himself  lucky.' 

'  Well,  Harry,  I  won't  argue  any  more.     I  have  no  right  to 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  237 

preach  forbearance.  Your  brother's  example  is  better  "worth  than 
my  precept.  Shall  vtq  go  back  to  Margaret,  or  have  you  anything 
to  say  to  me  ?  ' 

Harry  made  no  positive  answer,  but  pressed  close  to  his  father, 
who  put  his  arm  round  him,  while  the  curly-head  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder.  Presently,  he  said,  with  a  great  sigh,  '  There's  nothing 
like  home.' 

'  Was  that  what  you  wanted  to  say  ?  '  asked  Dr.  May,  smiling, 
as  he  held  the  boy  more  closely  to  him. 

'  No  ;  but  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  come  back.  They 
think  we  shall  have  orders  for  the  Pacific' 

'  You  will  come  home  our  real  lion,'  said  the  Doctor.  '  How 
much  you  will  have  to  tell ! ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Harry ;  '  but,  oh  !  it  is  very  different  from  corr.ing 
home  every  night,  not  having  anyone  to  tell  a  thing  to.' 

'  Do  you  want  to  say  anything  now  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  I  told  you  in  my  letter  about  the  half- 
sovereign.' 

'  Aye,  never  mind  that.' 

'  And  there  was  one  night,  I  am  afraid,  I  did  not  stand  by  a 
little  fellow  that  they  bullied  about  his  prayers.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  gone  on,  if  I  had  helped  him  ! ' 

'  Does  he  sail  with  you  ?  ' 

'  No,  he  was  at  school.  If  I  had  told  him  that  he  and  I  would 
stand  by  each  other — but  he  looked  so  foolish,  and  began  to  cry  ! 
r  am  sorry  now.' 

'  Weak  spirits  have  much  to  bear,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  and  you 
stronger  ones,  who  don't  mind  being  bullied,  are  meant,  I  suppose, 
to  help  them,  as  Norman  has  been  doing  by  poor  little  Tommy.' 

'  It  was  thinking  of  Norman — that  made  me  sorry.  I  knew 
there  was  something  else,  but  you  see  I  forget,  when  I  don't  see 
you  and  Margare*  every  day.' 

'  You  have  One  always  near,  my  boy.' 

'  I  know,  but  I  cannot  always  recollect.  And  there  is  such  a 
row  at  night  on  board,  I  cannot  think  or  attend  as  I  ought,'  mur- 
mured Harry. 

'  Yes,  your  life,  sleeping  at  home  in  quiet,  has  not  prepared  you 
or  that  trial,'  said  the  Doctor.  '  But  others  have  kept  upright 
habits  under  the  same,  you  know — and  God  helps  those  who  are 
doing  their  best.' 

Harry  sighed. 

'  I  mean  to  do  my  best,'  he  added  ;  '  and  if  it  was  not  for  feeling 
bad,  I  should  like  it.  I  do  like  it ' — and  his  eye  sparkled,  and  his 
smile  beamed,  though  the  tear  was  undried. 

'  I  know  you  do  ! '  said  Dr.  May,  smiling,  '  and  for  feeling  bad, 
my  Harry,  I  fear  you  must  do  that  by  sea,  or  land,  as  long  as  you 
are  in  this  world.     God  be  thanked  that  you  grieve  over  the  feeling 


1238  THK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

But  He  is  ready  to  aid,  and  knows  the  trial,  and  you  will  be  brouglil 
nearer  to  lliiu,  before  you  leave  us.' 

'  Marfraret  wrote  about  the  Confirmation.     Am  I  old  enough  ?  ' 

'  If  you  wish  it,  Harry,  under  these  circumstances.' 

'  I  suppose  I  do,'  said  Harry,  uneasily  twirling  a  button.  '  13ul 
then,  if  I've  got  to  forgive  the  Andersons — ' 

'  We  wont  talk  any  more  of  that,'  said  the  Doctor — '  here  i.s 
poor  Mary,  reconnoitring,  to  know  why  I  am  keeping  you  from 
her.' 

Then  began  the  scampering  up  and  down  the  house,  roimd  and 
round  the  garden,  visiting  every  pet  or  haunt,  or  contrivance ; 
Mary  and  Harry  at  the  head,  Blanche  and  Tom  in  full  career  after 
them,  and  Aubrey  stumping  and  scrambling  at  his  utmost  speed,  far 
behind. 

Not  a  word  passed  between  Norman  and  Harry  on  the  school 
misadventure,  but,  after  the  outbreak  of  tlie  latter,  he  treated  it  aa 
a  thing  forgotten,  and  brought  all  his  high  spirits  to  enliven  the 
family  party.  Richard,  too,  returned  later  ou  the  same  day,  and 
though  not  received  with  the  same  uproarious  joy  as  Harry,  the 
elder  section  of  the  family  were  as  happy  in  their  way  as  what 
Blanche  called  the  middle-aged.  The  l)aisy  was  brought  down, 
and  the  eleven  were  again  all  in  the  same  room,  though  there  were 
suppressed  sighs  from  some,  who  reflected  how  long  it  might  be 
before  they  could  again  assemble. 

Tea  went  off  happily  in  the  garden,  with  much  laughing  and 
talking.  '  Pity  to  leave  such  good  company  ! '  said  the  Doctor,  un- 
willingly rising  at  last — '  but  I  must  go  to  the  Union — I  promised 
Ward  to  meet  him  there.' 

'  O  let  me  walk  with  3'ou  ! '  cried  Harry. 

'  And  me  !  '  cried  other  voices,  and  the  Doctor  proposed  that 
they  should  wait  for  him  in  the  meads,  and  extend  the  walk  after 
the  visit,  lliohard  and  Ethel  both  expressing  their  intention  of 
adhering  to  Margaret — the  latter  observing  how  nice  it  would  be 
to  get  rid  of  everybody,  and  have  a  talk. 

'  AVhat  have  we  been  doing  all  this  time ! '  said  Dr.  May, 
laughing. 

'  Chattering,  not  conversing,'  said  Ethel,  saucily. 

'  Aye  !  the  Coeksmoor  board  is  going  to  sit,'  said  Dr.  May. 

'  AVhat  is  a  board  ?  '  inquired  Blanche,  who  had  just  come  down 
prepared  for  her  walk. 

'  Kichard,  Margaret,  and  Ethel,  when  they  sit  upon  Coeksmoor, 
eaid  Dr.  May. 

'  But  Margaret  never  does  sit  on  Coeksmoor,  papa.' 

'  Only  allegorically,  Blanche,'  said  Norman. 

*  But  I  don't  understand  what  is  a  board  V  '  pursued  Blanche. 

*  Mr.  May  in  liis  ship,'  was  Norman's  suggestion. 

Poor  Blanche  stood  in  perplexity.     '  What  is  it  really  ?  ^ 


THE   DAISY    CnALN".  239 

*  Sometliiug  wooden-headed,'  continued  the  provoking  papa. 

*  A  board  is  all  wooden,  not  only  its  head,'  said  Blanche. 

'  Exactly  so,  especially  at  Stoneborongh  ! '  said  the  Doctor. 

*  It  is  what  papa  is  when  he  comes  out  of  the  council-room/  added 
Ethel. 

'  Or  what  everyone  is  while  the  girls  are  rigging  themselves,' 
sighed  Harry.     '  Ha  !  here's  Polly — now  we  only  want  Flora.' 

'  And  my  stethoscope  !  Has  anyone  seen  my  stethoscope  ?  '  ex- 
claimed the  Doctor,  beginning  to  rush  frantically  into  the  study, 
dining-room,  and  his  own  room  ;  but  failing,  quietly  took  up  a  book, 
and  gave  up  the  search,  which  was  vigorously  pursued  by  Richard, 
Flora,  and  Mary,  until  the  missing  article  was  detected,  where  Au- 
brey had  left  it  in  the  nook  on  the  stairs,  after  using  it  for  a  trum- 
pet and  a  telescope. 

'  Ah  !  now  my  goods  will  have  a  chance  ! '  said  Dr.  May,  as  he 
took  it,  and  patted  Richard's  shoulder.  '  I  have  my  best  right- 
hand,  and  Margaret  will  be  saved  endless  sufferings.' 

'  Papa ! ' 

'  Aye  !  poor  dear  !  don't  I  see  what  she  undergoes,  when  nobody 
will  remember  that  useful  proverb,  "  A  place  for  everything,  and 
everything  in  its  place."  I  believe  one  use  of  her  brains  is  to  make 
an  inventory  of  all  the  things  left  about  the  drawing-room ;  but, 
beyond  it,  it  is  past  her  power.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Flora,  rather  aggrieved ;  '  I  do  the  best  I  can,  but 
when  nobody  ever  puts  anything  into  its  place,  what  can  I  do,  sin- 
gle-handed ?  So  no  one  ever  goes  .  anywhere  without  first  turning 
the  house  up-side  down,  for  their  property ;  and  Aubrey,  and  now 
even  buby,  are  always  carrying  whatever  they  can  lay  hands  on  into 
the  nursery.  I  can't  bear  it ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  that — ' 
she  added,  finishing  her  lamentation,  after  the  others  were  out  at 
the  door,  '  Papa  and  Ethel  have  neither  of  them  the  least  shame 
about  it.' 

'  No,  no.  Flora,  that  is  not  fair  ! '  exclaimed  Margaret — but 
Flora  was  gone. 

'  I  have  shame,'  sighed  Ethel,  walking  across  the  room,  discon- 
solately, to  put  a  book  into  a  shelf. 

'  And  you  dont  leave  things  trainants  as  you  used,'  said  Mar- 
garet.    '  That  is  what  I  meant.' 

'  I  wish  I  did  not,'  said  Ethel ;  '  I  was  thinking  whether  I  had 
better  not  make  myself  pay  a  forfeit.  Suppose  you  keep  a  book  for 
me,  Margaret,  and  make  a  mark  against  me  at  everything  I  leave 
about,  and  if  I  pay  a  farthing  for  each,  it  will  be  so  much  away 
from  Coeksmoor,  so  I  must  cure  myself ! ' 

'  And  what  shall  become  of  the  forfeits  ?  '  asked  Richard. 

'  Oh,  they  won't  be  enough  to  be  worth  having,  I  hope,'  said 
Margaret, 

'  Givo  them  to  the   Ladies'   Committee,'  said  Ethel,  making  a 


240  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

face.  '  Oh,  Ritdiie  !  they  arc  worse  than  ever.  We  are  so  glad 
that  Flora  is  going  to  join  it,  and  see  •whether  she  can  do  any 
good.' 

'  We  ?  '  said  Margaret,  hesitating. 

'  Ah  !  I  know  you  aren't,  but  papa  said  she  might — and  you 
know  she  has  so  much  tact  and  management — ' 

'  As  Norman  says,'  observed  Margaret,  doubtfully.  '  I  cannot 
like  the  notion  of  Flora  going  and  squabbling  with  Mrs.  Lcdwich 
and  Louisa  Anderson  ! ' 

'  What  do  you  think,  Ritchie  ? '  asked  Ethel.  '  Is  it  not  too 
bad  that  they  should  have  it  all  their  own  way,  and  spoil  the  whole 
female  population  ?  Why,  the  last  thing  they  did  was  to  leave  off 
reading  the  Prayer-book  prayers  morning  and  evening  !  And  it  is 
much  expected  that  next  they  will  attack  all  learning  by  heart.' 

'  It  is  too  bad,'  said  llichard,  '  but  Flora  can  hardly  hinder 
them.' 

'  It  will  be  one  voice,'  said  Ethel ;  '  but  oh  !  if  I  could  only  say 
half  what  I  have  in  my  mind,  they  must  sec  the  error.  '  Why, 
these,  these — what  they  call  formal — these  the  ties — links  on  to  the 
Church — on  to  what  is  good — if  they  don't  learn  them  soundl}- — 
rammed  down  hard — you  know  what  I  mean — so  that  they  can't 
remember  the  first^ — remember  when  they  did  not  know  them — 
they  will  never  get  to  learn — know — understand  when  they  can 
understand  ! ' 

'  My  dear  Ethel,  don't  frown  so  horribly,  or  it  will  spoil  your 
eloquence,'  said  Margaret. 

'  I  don't  understand  either,'  said  Eichard,  gravely.  'Not  un- 
derstand when  they  can  imdcrstand  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  Why,  llitchie,  don't  you  see  ?  If  they  don't  learn  them — 
hard,  firm,  by  rote  when  they  can't — they  won't  Understand  when 
they  can.' 

'  If  they  don't  learn  when  they  can't,  they  won't  understand 
when  they  can  ?  ' — puzzled  llichard — makir.g  Margaret  laugh — but 
Ethel  was  too  much  in  earnest  for  amusement. 

'  If  they  don't  learn  them  by  rote  when  they  have  strong  memo- 
ries. Yes,  that's  it ! '  she  continued,  '  they  will  not  know  them 
well  enough  to  understand  them  when  they  are  old  enough  ! ' 

'  Who  won't  learn  or  understand  what?'  said  Richard. 

'  Oh  !  Ritchie,  Ritchie  !  Why  the  children — the  Psalms — the 
Gospels — the  things.  They  ought  to  know  them,  love  them,  grow 
up  to  them,  before  they  know  the  meaning,  or  they  won't  care. 
Memory,  association,  aflcction,  all  those  come  when  one  is  younger 
than  comprehension  I ' 

'  Younger  than  one's  own  comprehension  ? ' 

*  Richard,  you  are  grown  more  tiresome  than  ever  Are  you 
laughing  at  me  V 


THE   DAISY   CHAEn.  2-il 

'  Indeed,  I  beg  your  pardon — I  did  not  mean  it,'  said  Kichard. 
I  am  very  sorry  to  be  so  stupid.' 

'  My  dear  Ritchie,  it  was  only  my  blundering — never  mind.' 

*  But  what  did  you  mean  ?     I  want  to  know,  indeed,  Ethel." 

'  I  mean  that  memory  and  association  come  before  comprehen- 
sion, so  that  one  ought  to  knov.'  all  good  things — fa — with  fami- 
liarity before  one  can  understand,  because  understanding  does  not 
make  one  love.  Oh  !  one  does  that  before,  and,  when  the  first  little 
gleam,  little  bit  of  a  sparklet  of  the  meaning  does  come,  then  it  is 
BO  valuable  and  so  delightful.' 

'  I  never  heard  of  a  little  bit  of  a  sparklet  before,'  said  Eichard, 
'  but  I  think  I  do  see  what  Ethel  means ;  and  it  is  like  what  I 
heard  and  liked  in  a  University  sermon  some  Sundays  ago,  saying 
that  these  lessons  and  holy  words  were  to  be  impressed  on  us  here 
from  infancy  on  earth,  that  we  might  be  always  unravelling  their 
meaning,  and  learn  it  fully  at  last — where  we  hope  to  be.' 

'  The  very  same  thought ! '  exclaimed  Margaret  delighted ; 
'  but,'  after  a  pause,  'I  am  afraid  the  Ladies'  Committee  might  not 
enter  into  it  in  plain  English,  far  less  in  Ethel's  language.' 

'  Now,  Margaret !  You  know  I  never  meant  myself.  I  never 
can  get  the  right  words  for  what  I  mean.' 

'  And  you  leave  about  your  faux  commencements^  as  M. 
I3allompr6  would  call  them,  for  us  to  stumble  over,'  said  Margaret. 

'  But  Flora  would  manage  ! '  said  Ethel.  '  She  has  power  over 
people,  and  can  influence  them.  0  Ritchie,  don't  persuade  papa 
out  of  letting  her  go.' 

'  Does  Mr.  Wilmot  wish  it  ?  '  asked  Richard. 

'  I  have  not  heard  him  say,  but  he  was  very  much  vexed  about 
the  prayers,'  said  Ethel. 

'  Will  he  stay  here  for  the  holidays  ?  ' 

'  No,  his  father  has  not  been  well,  and  he  is  gone  to  take  his 
duty.  He  walked  with  us  to  Cocksmoor  before  he  went,  and  we 
did  so  wish  for  you. 

'  How  have  you  been  getting  on  ?  ' 

'  Pretty  well,  on  the  whole,'  said  Ethel,  '  but,  oh  dear  !  oh  dear, 
Eichard,  the  M'Carthys  are  gone  !  ' 

'  Gone,  where  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  to  Wales.  I  knew  nothing  of  it  till  they  were  off.  Una 
and  Fergus  were  missing,  and  Jane  Taylor  told  me  they  were  all 
gone.  Oh,  it  is  so  horrid!  Una  had  really  come  to  be  so  good  and 
so  much  in  earnest.  She  behaved  so  well  at  school  and  Church, 
that  even  Mrs.  Ledwich  liked  her,  and  she  used  to  read  her  Testa- 
ment half  the  day,  and  bring  her  Sunday-school  lessons  to  ask  me 
about !  Oh !  I  was  so  fond  of  her,  and  it  really  seemed  to  have 
done  some  good  with  her.  And  now  it  is  all  lost !  Oh  !  I  wish  I 
knew  what  would  become  of  my  poor  child !  ' 

'  The  only  hope  is  that  it  may  not  be  all  lost,'  said  Margaret. 
Vol.  I— 11 


24:2  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

'  With  8ucli  a  woman  for  a  mother  ! '  said  Ethel ;  '  and  going  to 
Bome  heathenish  place  again  !  If  I  could  only  have  seen  her  first, 
and  begged  her  to  go  to  Church  and  say  her  prayers.  If  I  only 
knew  where  she  is  gone !  but  I  don't.  I  did  think  Una  would 
have  come  to  wish  me  good-bye  ! ' 

*  I  am  very  sorry  to  lose  her,'  said  Richard. 

'  Mr.  "Wilmot  says  it  is  bread  cast  on  the  waters,'  said  Margaret 
— '  he  was  very  kind  in  consoling  Ethel,  who  came  home  quite  in 
despair.' 

'  Yes,  he  said  it  was  one  of  the  trials,'  said  Ethel,  '  and  that  it 
might  be  better  for  Una  as  well  as  for  me.  And  I  am  trying  to 
care  for  the  rest  still,  but  I  cannot  yet  as  I  did  for  her.  There  arc 
none  of  the  eyes  that  look  as  if  tluy  were  eating  up  one's  words 
before  they  come,  and  that  smile  of  comprehension  !  Oh  !  they  all 
are  such  stupid  little  dolts,  and  so  iudifi'erent ! ' 

'  Why,  Ethel ! ' 

'  Fancy  last  Friday — Mary  and  I  found  only  eight  there — ' 

'Do  you  remember  what  a  broiling  day  Friday  was?'  inter- 
rupted Margaret.  '  Miss  Winter  and  Norman  both  told  me  I  ought 
not  to  let  them  go,  and  I  began  to  think  so  when  they  came  home. 
jMary  was  the  colour  of  a  peony  ! ' 

'  Oh  ! '  it  would  not  have  signified  if  the  children  had  been  good 
for  an)thing,  but  all  their  mothers  were  out  at  work,  and,  of  those 
that  did  come,  hardly  one  had  learnt  their  lessons — Willy  Blake 
had  lost  his  spelling-card — Anne  Harris  kicked  Susan  Pope,  and 
would  not  say  she  was  sorry.  Mary  Hale  would  not  know  M  from 
N,  do  all  our  Mary  would ;  and  Jane  Taylor,  after  all  the  pains  I 
have  taken  with  her,  when  I  asked  how  the  Israelites  crossed  the 
Red  Sea,  seemed  never  to  have  heard  of  them.' 

Margaret  could  have  said  that  Ethel  had  come  in  positively 
crying  with  vexation,  but  with  no  diminution  of  the  spirit  of  perse- 
verance. '  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come,  Richard  ! '  she  continued. 
'  You  will  put  a  little  new  life  into  them.  They  all  looked  so 
pleased,  when  we  told  them  Mr.  Richard  was  coming.' 

'  I  hope  we  shall  get  on,'  said  Richard. 

*  I  want  you  to  judge  whether  the  Popes  are  civilized  enough  to 
be  dressed  for  Sunday-school.  Oh  !  and  the  money.  Here  is  the 
account-book — ' 

'  How  neatly  you  have  kept  it,  Ethel.' 

'  Ah  !  it  was  for  you,  you  know.  Receipts — see,  ar'n't  you  Bur- 
prised  ? ' 

'  Four  pounds,  eighteen  and  eightpence  ?     That  is  a  great  deal !  ' 

'  The  three  guineas  were  Mr.  Rivers's  fees,  you  know ;  then, 
Margaret  gave  us  half-a-sovercign,  and  Marj'  a  shilling,  and  there 
was  one  that  we  picked  up,  tumbling  about  the  house,  and  papa 
Baid  we  might  have,  and  the  two-pence  were  little  Rlanchc'a  sav- 
ings.    Oh,  Ritchie  ! '  as  a  bright  coin  appeared  on  the  book. 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  243 

*  That  is  all  I  could  save  this  term,'  he  said. 

<  Oh  !  it  is  famous.  Now,  I  do  think  I  may  put  another  whole 
govereign  away  into  the  purse  for  the  Church.  See,  here  is  what 
we  have  paid.  Shoes — those  did  bring  our  money  very  low, 
and  then  I  bought  a  piece  of  print  which  cost  sixteen  shillings,  but 
it  will  make  plenty  of  frocks.  So,  you  see,  the  balance  is  actually 
two  pounds  nine  !  That  is  something.  The  nine  shillings  will  go 
on  till  we  get  another  fee ;  for  I  have  two  frocks  ready  made  for 
the  Popes,  so  the  two  pounds  are  a  real  nest-egg  towards  the 
Chui-ch.' 

'  The  Church  !  '  repeated  Richard,  half  smiling. 

'  I  looked  in  the  paper  the  other  day,  and  saw  that  a  chapel  had 
been  built  for  nine  hundred  pounds,'  said  Ethel. 

'  And  you  have  two  ! ' 

'  Two  in  eight  months,  Ptitchie,  and  more  will  come  as  we  gel 
older.     I  have  a  scheme  in  my  head,  but  I  won't  tell  you  now.' 

'  Nine  hundred !  And  a  Church  has  to  be  endowed  as  well  as 
built,  you  know,  Ethel.' 

'  Oh  !  never  mind  that  now.  If  we  can  begin  and  build,  some 
good  person  will  come  and  help.  I'll  run  and  fetch  it,  Pitchie.  T 
drew  out  a  sketch  of  what  I  want  it  to  be.' 

'  What  a  girl  that  is  ! '  said  Pichard,  as  Ethel  dashed  away. 

'  Is  not  she  ? '  said  Margaret.  '  And  she  means  all  so  heartily. 
Do  you  know  she  has  spent  nothing  on  her  own  pleasures,  not  a 
book,  not  a  thing  has  she  bought  this  year,  except  a  present  for 
Blanche's  birthday,  and  some  silk  to  net  a  purse  for  Harry.' 

'  I  cannot  help  being  sometimes  persuaded  that  she  will  succeed,' 
said  Pichard. 

'  Faith,  energy,  self-denial,  perseverance,  they  go  a  great  way,' 
said  Margaret.  '  And  yet  when  we  look  at  poor  dear  Ethel,  and 
her  queer  ungainly  ways,  and  think  of  her  building  a  Church  ! ' 

Neither  Richard  nor  Margaret  could  help  laughing,  but  they 
checked  it  at  once,  and  the  former  said,  '  That  brave  spirit  is  a 
reproof  to  us  all.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Margaret ;  '  and  so  is  the  resolution  to  mend  her 
little  faults.' 

Ethel  came  back,  having,  of  course,  mislaid  her  sketch,  and, 
much  vexed,  wished  to  know  if  it  ought  to  cause  her  first  forfeit, 
but  Margaret  thought  these  should  not  begin  till  the  date  of  the 
agreement,  and  the  three  resumed  the  Cocksmoor  discussion. 

It  lasted  till  the  return  of  the  walking  party,  so  late,  that  they 
had  been  star-gazing,  and  came  in,  in  full  dispute  as  to  which  was 
Cygnus  and  which  Aquila,  while  Blanche  was  talking  very 
grandly  of  Taurus  Poniatouski,  and  Harry  begging  to  be  told 
which  constellations  he  should  still  see  in  the  southern  hemisphere 
Pr.  May  was  the  first  to  rectify  the  globe  for  the  southern  latitudes, 
and  fingers  were  affectionately  laid  on  Orion's  studded  belt,  aa 


2-1:4:  THE    DAISY    CIIAIX, 

though  he  were  a  friend  who  would  accompauy  the  sailor-boy. 
Voices  grew  loud  and  eager  in  enumerating  the  stars  common  to 
both  ;  and  so  came  bed-time,  and  the  globe  stood  on  the  table  in 
danger  of  being  forgotten.  Ethel  diligently  lifted  it  up  ;  and  while 
Norman  exclaimed  at  her  tidiness,  Margaret  told  how  a  new  leaf 
was  to  be  turned,  and  of  her  voluntary  forfeits. 

'  A  very  good  plan,'  cried  the  Doctor.  '  "\Vc  can't  do  bottci 
than  follow  her  example.' 

'  What,  you,  papa  ?     Oh  !  what  fun  ! '  exclaimed  Ilarr}'. 

'  So  you  think  I  shall  be  ruined,  Mr.  Monkey.  How  do  you 
know  I  shall  not  be  the  most  orderly  of  all  ?  A  penny  for  every- 
thing left  about,  confiscated  for  the  benefit  of  Cocksmoor,  eh  ? ' 

'  And  twopence  for  pocket-handkerchiefs,  if  you  please,'  said 
Norman,  with  a' gesture  of  disgust. 

'  Very  well.  From  Blanche,  upwards.  Margaret  shall  have  a 
book,  and  set  down  marks  against  us — hold  an  audit  every  Satur- 
day night.     What  say  3'ou,  Blanche?  ' 

'  0  I  hope  Flora  will  leave  something  about ! '  cried  Blanche, 
dancing  with  glee. 


CHAPTER    XX y. 


'  O  no,  -we  never  mention  bcr, 
We  never  breathe  her  name.' — Soxo. 


A  GREAT  deal  of  merriment  had  come  home  with  Harr;y,  who  never 
was  grave  for  ten  minutes  without  a  strong  reaction,  and  distracted 
the  house  with  his  noise  and  his  antics,  in  proportion,  as  it  some- 
times seemed,  to  the  spaces  of  serious  thought  and  reading  spent  in 
the  study,  where  Dr.  May  did  his  best  to  supply  Mr.  llamsden's  in- 
sufficient attention  to  hia  Confirmation  candidates,  by  giving  an 
hour  every  day  to  Norman,  Ethel,  and  Harry,  He  could  not  lec- 
ture, but  he  read  with  them,  and  his  own  earnestness  was  very  im- 
pressive. ' 

Tlie  two  eldest  felt  deeply,  but  Harry  often  kept  it  in  dcul?t, 
whether  he  were  not  as  yet  too  young  and  wild  for  permanent  im- 
pressions, so  rapid  were  his  transitions,  and  so  overpowering  his 
high  spirits.  Not  that  these  were  objected  to ;  but  there  was  a 
feeling  that  tlicre  might  as  well  be  moderation  in  all  things,  and 
that  it  would  have  been  satisfactory  if,  under  present  circumstances, 
he  had  been  somewhat  more  subdued  and  diligent. 

*  There  are  3-our  decimals  not  done  yet,  Harry.' 

For  Harry  being  sonicwliat  deficient  in  arithmetic,  had  been 
recommended  to  work  iu  that  line  during  his  visit  at  home — an 
operation  usually  deferred,  as  at  present,  to  the  evening. 

'  I  am  going  to  do  my  sums  now.  Flora,'  said  Harry,  somewhat 
annoyed. 


THE   DAISY   CHAIX.  24:5 

He  really  fetched  his  arithmetic,  and  his  voice  was  soon  heard 
asking  how  he  was  ever  to  put  an  end  to  a  sum  that  looidd  turn  tc 
nothing  but  everlasting  threes. 

'  What  have  you  been  doing,  young  ladies  ? '  asked  Dr.  May. 
*  Did  you  call  on  Miss  Walkingham  ?  ' 

'  Flora  and  Blanche  did,'  said  Ethel;  'I  thought  you  did  not 
want  me  to  go,  and  I  had  not  time.  Besides,  a  London  grand 
young  lad}^ — Oh ! '  and  Ethel  shook  her  head  in  disgust. 

'  That  is  not  the  way  you  treat  Meta  Rivers.' 

'  Oh  !  Meta  is  diiferent.     She  has  never  been  out ! ' 

'  I  should  have  been  glad  for  you  to  have  seen  Miss  Walking- 
ham,'  said  her  father.  '  Pretty  manners  are  improving;  besides,  old 
Lady  Walkingham  begged  me  to  send  my  daughters.' 

'  I  should  not  have  seen  her,'  said  Ethel,  '  for  she  was  not  well 
enough  to  let  us  in.' 

'  Was  it  not  pushing  ?  '  said  Flora.  '  There  were  the  Andersons 
leaving  their  card  ?  ' 

'  Those  Andersons  ! '  exclaimed  the  Doctor  ;  '  I  am  sick  of  the 
very  sound  of  the  name.  As  sure  as  my  name  is  Dick  May,  I'll 
include  it  in  Margaret's  book  of  fines.' 

Flora  looked  dignified. 

'  They  are  always  harping  on  that  little  trumpery  girl's  non- 
sense,' said  Harry — '  Aught,  aught,  eight,  that  is  eight  thousandths, 
eh,  Norman !     If  it  was  about  those  two  fellows,  the  boys — ' 

'  You  would  harp  only  on  what  affects  you  ?  '  said  the  Doctor. 

'  No,  I  don't ;  men  never  do.  That  is  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
fifth.' 

'  One  man  does  it  to  an  hundred  and  twenty-five  women  ? '  said 
Dr.  May. 

'  It  is  rather  a  female  defect,  indeed,'  said  Margaret. 

'  Defect ! '  said  Flora. 
- '  Yes,'  said  Dr.  May,  '  since  it  is  not  only  irksome  to  the  hear- 
ers, but  leads  to  the  breaking  of  the  ninth  commandment.' 

Many  voices  declared,  in  forms  of  varying  severity,  that  it  wag 
impossible  to  speak  worse  of  the  Andersons  than  they  deserved. 

*  Andersons  again ! '  cried  Dr.  May,  '  One,  two,  three,  four,  five, 
six  forfeits  ! ' 

•'  Papa  himself,  for  he  said  the  name,"  saucily  put  in  Blanche. 

*  I  think  I  should  like  the  rule  to  be  made  in  earnest,'  said  Ethek 
'  What !  in  order  to  catch  Flora's  pence  for  Cocksmoor  ?  '  sug- 
gested Harry. 

'  No,  but  because  it  is  malice.  I  mean,  that  is,  if  there  is  dis- 
like, or  a  grudge  in  our  hearts  at  them — talking  for  ever  of  nasty 
little  miserable  irritations  makes  it  worse.' 

'  Then  why  do  you  do  it  ?  '  asked  Flora.  '  I  heard  you  only  on 
Sunday  declaiming  about  Fanny  Anderson.' 

'  Ha  ! '  cried  out  all  at  once.     '  There  goes  Flora ! ' 


24:6  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

She  looked  intensely  serious  and  innocent. 

'  I  know,' said  Ethel.  '  It  is  the  very  reason  I  want  the  rule  t( 
be  made,  just  to  stop  us,  for  I  am  sure  we  must  often  say  more 
than  is  right.' 

*  Especial!}'  when  we  come  to  the  pass  of  declaring  that  the  ninth 
comniaudmeut  cannot  be  broken  with  regard  to  them,'  observed  the 
Doctor. 

'  IMost  likely  they  are  saying  much  tlie  same  of  us,'  said  Richard. 

'  Or  worse,'  rejoined  Dr.  May.  '  The  injured  never  hates  as 
much  as  tlio  injurer.' 

'  Now  papa  has  said  the  severest  tilings  of  all !  "  whispered  Ethel. 

'  Proving  the  inexpedience  of  personalities,'  said  Dr.  May,  '  and 
in  good  time  enter  the  evening  post. — Why  !  how  now,  Mr.  May, 
are  you  gone  mad  ?  ' 

'  Hallo  !  why  ho,  ha  !  hurrah  !  '  and  up  went  Harry's  book  of 
decimals  to  the  ceiling,  coming  down  upon  a  candle,  which  would 
have  been  overturned  on  EthcPs  work,  if  it  had  not  been  dexter- 
ously caught  by  Ilichai-d. 

'  Harry ! '  indignantly  cried  Ethel  and  Flora,  '  see  what  you 
liave  done ! '  and  the  Doctor's  voice  called  to  order,  but  Harrv 
could  not  heed.     '  Hear  !  hear  !  he  has  a  fortune,  an  estate.' 

'  Who  ?    Tell  us— don't  bo  so  absurd.     AVho  ?  ' 

*  Why,  Mr.  Ernescliflc.  Here  is  a  letter  from  Hector.  Only 
listen  : 

' "  Did  you  know  we  had  an  old  far-away  English  cousin,  one 
^Ir.  Halliday  ?  I  hardly  did,  though  Alan  was  named  after  him. 
and  he  belonged  to  my  mother.  He  was  a  cross  old  fellow,  and 
took  no  notice  of  us,  but  within  the  last  year  or  two,  his  nephew, 
or  son,  or  .something,  died,  and  now  he  is  just  dead,  and  the  lawyer 
wrote  to  tell  Alan  he  is  heir-at-law.  Mr.  p]rnescliflfe,  of  Maple- 
wood  !  Does  it  not  sound  well  ?  It  is  a  beautiful  great  place  in 
Shropshire,  and  Alan  and  I  mean  to  run  off  to  see  it  as  soon  as  he 
can  have  any  time  on  shore."  ' 

Ethel  could  not  help  looking  at  Margaret,  but  was  ashamed  of 
her  impertinence,  and  coloured  violently,  whereas  her  sister  did  not 
colour  at  all,  and  Norman,  looking  down,  wondered  whether  Alan 
would  make  the  voyage. 

'  Oh !  of  cour.se  he  will ;  he  must,'  said  Harr}'.  '  He  would 
never  give  up  now.' 

Norman  further  wondered  whether  Hector  would  remain  on  the 
Stoncboruugh  foundation,  and  Mar}'  hoped  they  should  not  lose 
him ;  but  there  was  no  great  readiness  to  talk  over  the  event,  and 
there  soon  was  a  silence  broken  by  Flora,  saying,  '  He  is  no  such 
nobody,  as  Louisa  Anderson  said  wl.cn  we — ' 

Another  shout,  which  caused  Flora  to  take  refuge  in  playing 
waltzes  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Moreover,  to  the  extreme 
eatisfaetion  of  Mary,  she  left  her  crochet-needle  on  the  floor  at 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  24:7 

niflit.  While  a  tumultuous  party  were  pursuing  her  with  it_  to 
claim  the  penny,  and  Richard  was  conveying  Margaret  up-stairs, 
Ethel  found  an  opportunity  of  asking  her  father  if  he  were  not  very 
glad  of  Mr.  Ernescliffe's  good  fortune. 

'  Yes,  very.     He  is  a  good  fellow,  and  will  make  a  good  use  of  it.' 
'  And  now,  papa,  does  it  not  make — you  won't  say  noio  you  are 
sorry  he  came  here.' 

She  had  no  answer  but  a  sigh,  and  a  look  that  made  her  blush 
for  having  ventured  so  far.  She  was  so  much  persuaded  that  great 
events  must  ensue,  that  all  the  next  day,  she  listened  to  every  ring 
of  the  bell,  and  when  one  at  last  was  followed  by  a  light,  though,  to 
her  ears,  manly  sounding  tread,  she  looked  up  flushing  with  expec- 
tation. 

Behold,  she  was  disappointed.  '  Miss  Walkingham  '  was  an- 
nounced, and  she  rose  surprised,  for  the  lady  in  question  had  only 
come  to  Stoneborough  for  a  couple  of  days  with  an  infirm  mother, 
who,  having  known  Dr.  May  in  old  times,  had  made  it  her  especial 
request  that  he  would  let  her  see  his  daughters.  She  was  to  pro- 
ceed ou  her  journey  to-day,  and  the  return  of  the  visit  had  been  by 
no  means  expected. 

Flora  went  forward  to  receive  her,  wondering  to  see  her  so 
young  looking,  and  so  unformed.  She  held  out  her  hand,  with  a  red 
wrist,  and,  as  far  as  could  be  seen  under  her  veil,  coloured  when 
presented  to  the  recumbent  Margaret.  How  she  got  into  her  chair, 
they  hardly  knew,  for  Flora  was  at  that  moment  extremely  annoyed 
by  hearing  an  ill-bred  peal  of  Mary's  laughter  in  the  garden,  close 
to  the  window ;  but  she  thought  it  best  to  appear  unconscious,  sinco 
she  had  no  power  to  stop  it. 

Margaret  thought  the  stranger  embarrassed,  and  kindly  inquired 
for  Lady  Walkingham. 

'  Much  the  same,  thank  you,'  mumbled  a  voice  down  in  the 
throat. 

A  silence,  until  Margaret  tried  another  question,  equally  briefly 
answered ;  and,  after  a  short  interval,  the  young  lady  contrived  to 
make  her  exit,  wi'-h  the  same  amount  of  gaucherie  as  had  marked 
her  entrance. 

Expressions  of  surprise  at  once  began,  and  were  so  loud,  that 
when  Harry  entered  the  room,  his  inquiry  was,  '  What's  the  row  ?  ' 

'  Miss  Walkingham,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  you  won't  understand 
She  seemed  half  wild !     Worse  than  me  ! ' 

'  How  did  you  like  the  pretty  improving  manners  ?  '  asked  Harry. 

'  Manners !  she  had  none,'  said  Flora.  '  She,  highly  connected ! 
ased  to  the  best  society  ! ' 

'  How  do  you  know  what  the  best  society  do  ?  '  asked  Harry. 

*  The  poor  thing  seemed  very  shy,'  said  Margaret. 
I  don't  know  about  shyness,'  said  Flora.     '  She  was  stifling  a 


248  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

laugli  all  the  time,  like  a  rude  school-boy.     And  I  thought  paps 
said  she  was  pretty!  ' 

'  Aye  ?     Did  you  think  her  so  ?  '  asked  Harry. 

*  A  great  broad  red  faee — and  so  awkward  ! '  cried  Flora,  indig- 
nantly. 

'If  one  could  have  seen  her  face,  I  tliiuk  she  might  have  been 
nice-looking,'  said  Margaret.  '  She  had  pretty  golden  curls,  and 
merry  blue  eyes,  rather  like  Harry's.' 

*  Umph  ! '  said  Flora — '  beauty  and  manners  seemed  to  me  much 
on  a  par  !     This  is  one  of  papa's  swans,  indeed  ! ' 

'  I  can't  believe  it  was  Miss  "Walkingham  at  all ! '  said  Ethel. 
'  It  must  have  been  some  boy  in  disguise.' 

'  Dear  me  ! '  cried  Margaret,  starting  wil'n  the  painful  timidity 
of  helplessness.  '  Do  look  whether  anything  is  gone.  Where's  the 
silver  inkstand  ? ' 

'  You  don't  think  she  could  put  that  into  her  pocket,'  said  EtKel, 
laughing  as  she  held  it  up. 

'  I  don't  know.  Do,  Harry,  see  if  the  umlyellas  are  safe  in  the 
hall.  I  wish  you  would,  for  now  I  come  to  remember,  the  Walk- 
iughams  went  at  nine  this  morning.  Miss  Winter  said  that  she 
saw  the  old  lady  helped  into  the  carriage,  as  she  passed.'  Margaret's 
eyes  looked  quite  large  and  terrified.  '  She  must  have  been  a  spy 
— the  whole  gang  will  come  at  night !  I  wish  Eichard  was  here. 
Harry,  it  really  is  no  laughing  matter.  You  had  better  give  notice 
to  the  police.' 

The  more  Margaret  was  alarmed,  the  more  Harry  laughed. 
'  Never  mind,  Margaret,  I'll  take  care  of  you !  Here's  my  dirk. 
I'll  stick  all  the  robbers.' 

'  Harry  !  Harry  !  Oh  !  don't !  '  cried  3Iargaret,  raising  herself 
up  in  an  agony  of  nervous  terror.  '  Oh  !  where  is  papa  ?  Will  no- 
body ring  the  bell^  and  send  George  for  the  police  ?  ' 

'  Police,  police  !  Thieves  !  Murder  !  llobbers  !  Fire  !  All  hands 
ahoy  ! '  shouted  Harry,  his  hands  making  a  trumpet  over  his  mouth. 

'Harry!  how  can  you?'  said  Ethel,  hastily;  'don't  you  see 
that  Margaret  is  terribly  frightened.  Can't  you  say  at  once  that 
it  was  you  ?  ' 

'  You ! '  and  Margaret  sank  back,  as  there  was  a  general  outcry 
of  laughter  and  wonder. 

'  Did  you  know  it,  Ethel  ?  '  asked  Flora,  severely. 

'  I  only  guessed  it  this  moment,'  said  Ethel.  '  How  well  you 
did  it,  Harry  ! ' 

'  Well ! '  said  Flora,  *  I  did  think  her  dress  very  like  Margaret's 
shot  silk.     I  hope  you  did  not  do  that  any  harm.' 

'  ]Jut  how  did  you  manage  V  '  said  Ethel.  '  Where  did  you? 
bonnet  come  from  ?  ' 

'  It  was  a  new  one  of  Adam's  wife.  Mary  got  it  for  me.  Como 
in,  Polly,  they  have  found  it  out.     Did  you  not  hear  her  splitting 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN".  249 

with  laughing  outside  the  ■window?     I  would  not  let  her  come  in 
for  fear  she  should  spoil  all.' 

'  And  I  was  just  going  to  give  her  such  a  scolding  for  giggling 
in  the  garden,'  said  Flora,  '  and  to  say  we  had  been  as  bad  as  Miss 
Walkingham.  You  should  not  have  been  so  awkward,  Harry ;  you 
nearly  betrayed  yourself.' 

'  He  had  nobody  to  teach  him  but  Mary,'  said  Ethel. 

'  Ah !  you  should  have  seen  me  at  my  ease  in  Minster  Street. 
Mo  one  suspected  me  there.' 

'  In  Minster  Street.     Oh  !  Harry  !  you  don't  really  mean  it.' 

'  I  do.  That  was  what  I  did  it  for.  I  was  resolved  to  kno-n 
what  the  nameless  ones  said  of  the  Miss  Mays.' 

Hasty  and  eager  inquiries  broke  out  from  Flora  and  Ethel. 

'  Oh,  Dr.  May  was  very  clever,  certainly,  very  clever.  Had  I 
seen  the  daughters  ?  I  said  I  was  going  to  call  there,  and  they 
said — ' 

'  What,  oh,  what,  Harry?  ' 

'  They  said  Flora  was  thought  pretty,  but — and  as  :o  Ethel, 
now,  how  do  you  think  you  came  off.  Unready  ? ' 

'  Tell  me.     They  could  not  say  the  same  of  me,  at  any  rate.' 

'  Quite  the  reverse  !     They  called  Ethel  very  odd,  poor  girl.' 

'  I  don't  mind,'  said  Ethel.  '  They  may  say  what  they  please 
of  me ;  besides  that,  I  believe  it  is  all  Harry's  own  invention.' 

'  Nay,  that  is  a  libel  on  my  invention  ! '  exclaimed  Harry.  '  If 
I  had  drawn  on  that,  could  I  not  have  told  you  something  much 
droller  ? ' 

'  And  was  that  really  all  ? '  said  ^lora. 

'  They  said — let  me  see — that  all  our  noses  were  too  long,  and, 
that  as  to  Flora's  being  a  beauty  !  when  their  brothers  called  her— 
so  droll  of  them — but  Harvey  called  her  a  stuck-up  duchess.  In 
fact,  it  was  the  fashion  to  make  a  great  deal  of  those  Mays.' 

'  I  hope  they  said  something  of  the  sailor  brother,'  said  Ethel. 

'  No ;  I  found  if  I  stayed  to  hear  much  more,  I  should  be  knock- 
ing Ivfed  down,  so  I  thought  it  time  to  take  leave  before  he  suspected.' 

All  this  had  passed  very  quickly,  with  much  laughter,  and  nu- 
merous interjections  of  amusement,  and  reprobation,  or  delight.  So 
excited  were  the  young  people,  that  they  did  not  perceive  a  step  on 
the  gravel,  till  Dr.  May  entered  by  the  window,  and  stood  among 
them.  His  first  exclamation  was  of  consternation.  '  Margaret  1 
my  dear  child,  what  is  the  matter  ?  ' 

Only  then  did  her  brother  and  sisters  perceive  that  Margaret 
was  lying  back  on  her  cushions,  very  pale,  and  panting  for  breath. 
She  tried  to  smile  and  say,  '  it  was  nothing,'  and  '  she  was  silly,' 
but  the  words  were  faint,  from  the  palpitation  of  her  heart. 

'  It  was  Harry's  trick,'  said  Flora,  indignantly,  as  she  flew  for 
*.he  scent-bottle,  while  her  father  bent  over  Margaret.      '  Harry 
dressed  himself  up,  and  she  was  frightened.' 
Vol.  I.— 11* 


250  THE   DAISY    CIIAIX. 

■■  O  nc — no — he  did  not  mean  it,'  gasped  Margaret — '  don't.' 

'  Harry  !  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so  cowardly  and  unfeeling! 
and  Dr   Clay's  look  was  even  more  reproachful  than  his  words. 

Harry  was  dismayed  at  his  sister's  condition,  but  the  injustice 
of  the  wholesale  reproach  chased  away  contrition.  '  I  did  nothing 
to  frighten  anyone,'  he  said,  moodily. 

'  Now,  Harry,  you  knOAV  how  you  kept  on,'  said  Flora,  '  and 
when  you  saw  she  was  frightened — ' 

'  I  can  have  no  more  of  this,'  said  Dr.  May,  seeing  that  the  dis- 
cussion was  injuring  Margaret  more  and  more.  '  Go  away  to  my 
study,  sir,  and  wait  till  I  come  to  you  !  All  of  you  out  of  the  room 
— Flora,  fetch  the  sal  volatile.' 

'  Let  me  tell  you,'  whispered  Margaret.  '  Don't  be  angry  with 
Harry.     It  was — ' 

'  Not  now,  not  now,  my  dear.     Lie  quite  still.' 

She  obeyed,  took  the  sal  volatile,  and  shut  her  eyes,  while  he 
sat  leaning  anxiously  over,  watching  her.  Presently,  she  opened 
them,  and,  looking  up,  said  rather  faintly,  and  trying  to  smile,  'I 
don't  think  I  can  be  better  till  you  have  heard  the  rights  of  it. 
He  did  not  mean  it.' 

'  Boys  never  do  mean  it,'  was  the  Doctor's  answer.  '  I  hoped 
better  things  of  Harry.' 

'  He  hiul  no  intention,'  began  Margaret,  but  she  still  was  unfit 
to  talk,  and  her  father  silenced  her,  by  promising  to  go  and  hear 
the  boy's  own  account. 

In  the  hall,  he  was  instantly  beset  by  Ethel  and  Mary,  tie 
former  exclaiming,  '  Papa !  you  are  quite  mistaken.  It  was  veiy 
foolish  of  Margaret  to  be  so  hughtencd  !  He  did  nothing  at  all  to 
frighten  anyone.' 

Ethel's  mode  of  pleading  was  unfortunate;  the  '  very  foolish  of 
Margaret '  were  the  very  words  to  displease. 

'  Do  not  interfere ! '  said  her  father,  sternly.  '  You  only  en- 
courage him  in  his  wanton  mischief,  and  no  one  takes  any  heed  how 
he  torments  my  poor  Margaret.' 

'  Papa  ! '  cried  Harry,  passionately  bursting  open  the  study  door, 
'  tormenting  Margaret  was  the  last  thing  I  would  do.' 

'  That  is  not  the  way  to  speak,  Harry.  What  have  you  been 
doing?' 

Witli  rapid,  agitated  utterance,  Harry  made  his  confession.  At 
another  time  the  Doctor  would  have  treated  the  matter  as  a  joko 
carried  too  far,  but  which,  while  it  called  for  censure,  was  very 
amusing;  but  now  the  explanation  that  the  disguise  had  been  as- 
sumed to  impose  on  the  Andersons,  only  added  to  his  displeasure. 

'  You  seem  to  think  you  have  a  license  to  play  off  any  imper- 
tinent freaks  you  please,  without  consideration  for  anyone,'  he  said; 
'  but  I  tell  you  it  is  not  so.  As  long  as  you  are  under  my  roof,  you 
shall  fcf'l  my  authority,  and  you  shall  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  in 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN'.  251 

your  room.  I  hope  quietness  there  vr'ill  bring  you  to  a  better  mind, 
but  I  am  disappointed  in  you.  A  boy  who  can  choose  such  a  time, 
and  such  subjects,  for  insolent,  unfeeling,  practical  jokes,  cannot  be 
in  a  fit  state  for  Confirmation.' 

'  Oh  !  papa !  papa  ! '  cried  the  two  girls,  in  tones  of  entreaty — 
while  Harry,  with  a  burning  face  and  hasty  step,  dashed  up-stairs 
without  a  word. 

'  You  have  been  as  bad  ! '  said  Dr.  May.  '  I  say  nothing  to  you, 
Mary,  you  knew  no  better;  but,  to  see  you,  Ethel,  first  encouraging 
him  in  his  impertinence,  and  terrifying  Margaret  so,  that  I  dare  say 
she  may  be  a  week  getting  over  it,  and  now  defen-iing  him,  and 
calling  her  silly,  is  unbearable.     I  cannot  trust  one  of  you ! ' 

'  Only  listen,  papa  ! ' 

'  I  will  have  no  altercation ;  I  must  go  back  to  Margaret,  since 
no  one  else  has  the  slightest  consideration  for  her.' 

An  hour  had  passed  away,  when  Eichard  knocked  at  Ethel's 
door  to  tell  her  that  tea  was  ready. 

'  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  go  down,'  said  Ethel,  as  he  looked 
in,  and  saw  her  seated  with  a  book. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  bear  to  go  down  while  poor  Harry  is  so  unjustly  used.' 

'  Hush,  Ethel ! ' 

'  I  cannot  hush !  Just  because  Margaret  fancies  robbers  and 
murderers,  and  all  sorts  of  nonsense,  as  she  always  did,  is  poor 
Harry  to  be  accused  of  wantonly  terrifying  her,  and  shut  up,  and 
cut  off  from  Confirmation  ?  and  just  when  he  is  going  away,  too ! 
It  is  unkind,  and  unjust,  and — ' 

'  Ethel,  you  will  be  sorry — ' 

'  Papa  will  be  sorry,'  continued  Ethel,  disregarding  the  caution. 
'  It  is  very  unfair,  and  I  will  say  so«  It  was  all  nonsense  of  Mar- 
garet's, but  he  will  always  make  everything  give  way  to  her  !  And 
poor  Harry,  just  going  to  sea.  No,  Ritchie,  I  cannot  come  down ; 
I  cannot  behave  as  usual.' 

'  You  will  grieve  Margaret  much  more,'  said  Richard. 

'  I  can't  help  that — she  should  not  have  made  such  a  fuss.' 

Richard  was  somewhat  in  difficulties  how  to  answer,  but  at  that 
moment  Harry's  door,  which  was  next,  was  slightly  opened — and 
his  voice  said,  '  Go  down,  Ethel.  The  Captain  may  punish  anyone 
he  pleases,  and  it  is  mutiny  in  the  rest  of  the  crew  to  take  his 
part.' 

'  Harry  is  in  the  right,'  said  Richard.  '  It  is  our  duty  not  to 
question  our  father's  judgments.  It  would  be  wrong  of  you  to  stay 
up.' 

'  Wrong  ?  '  said  Ethel. 

'  Of  course.  It  would  be  against  the  articles  of  war,'  said 
Harry,  opening  his  door  another  inch.  '  But  Ritchie,  I  say,  do  tell 
me  whether  it  has  hurt  Margaret.' 


252  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

'She  is  better  now,'  said  Richard,  'but  she  lias  a  liead  ache 
chiefly,  I  believe,  from  distress  at  having  brought  this  on  you.  Sh% 
ia  very  sorry  for  her  fright.' 

*  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of  friglitcning  the  most  fearsome 
little  tender  mouse  on  earth,'  said  Harry. 

'  No  indeed,'  said  Ethel. 

'  And  at  another  time  it  would  not  have  signified,'  said  Richard; 
*  but,  you  know,  Margaret  always  was  timid,  and  now,  the  not  being 
able  to  move,  and  the  being  out  of  health,  has  made  her  nerves 
weak,  so  that  she  cannot  help  it.' 

'  The  fault  was  in  our  never  heeding  her  when  we  were  so  eager 
to  hear  Harry's  story,'  said  Etheh  '  That  was  what  made  the 
palpitation  so  bad.  But,  now  papa  knows  all,  does  he  not  under- 
stand abou-t  Harry  ? ' 

'  He  was  obliged  to  go  out  as  soon  as  Margaret  was  better,'  said 
Richard,  '  and  was  scarcely  come  in  when  I  came  up.' 

'  Go  down,  Ethel,'  repeated  Harry.  '  Never  mind  me.  Norman 
told  me  that  sort  of  joke  never  answered,  and  I  might  have  minded 
him.' 

The  voice  was  very  much  troubled,  and  it  brought  back  that 
burning  sensation  of  indignant  tears  to  Ethel's  eyes. 

'  0  Harry  !  you  did  not  deserve  to  be  so  punished  for  it.' 

'  That  is  what  you  are  not  to  sa}','  returned  Harry.  '  I  ought 
not  to  have  played  the  trick,  and — and  jui^t  now  too — but  I  always 
forget  things — ' 

The  door  shut,  and  they  fancied  they  heard  sobs.  Ethel  groaned, 
but  made  no  opposition  to  following  her  brother  down  to  tea.  Mar- 
garet lay,  wan  and  exhausted,  on  the  sofa — the  Doctor  looked  very 
melancholy  and  rather  stern,  and  the  others  were  silent.  Ethel  had 
began  to  hope  for  the  warm  re-action  she  had  so  often  known  after  a 
hasty  fit,  but  it  did  not  readily  come ;  Harry  was  boy  instead  of 
girl — the  fault  and  its  consequence  had  been  more  serious — and  the 
anxiety  for  the  future  was  greater.  Besides,  he  had  not  fully  heard 
the  story ;  Harry,  in  his  incoherent  narration,  had  not  excused 
himself,  and  Margaret's  panic  had  appeared  more  as  if  inspired  by 
him,  than,  as  it  was,  in  fact,  the  work  of  her  fancy. 

Thus  the  evening  passed  gloomily  away,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
others  had  said  good  night,  that  Dr.  May  began  to  talk  over  the 
affair  with  his  eldest  son,  who  then  was  able  to  lay  before  him  tho 
facts  of  the  ease,  as  gathered  from  his  sisters.  He  listened  with  a 
manner  as  though  it  were  a  reproof,  and  then  said,  sadly,  '  I  am 
afraid  I  was  in  a  passion.' 

'  It  was  very  wrong  in  Harry,'  said  Richard,  '  and  particularly 
unlucky  it  should  happen  with  the  Andersons.' 

'  Very  thoughtlcs-s,'  said  the  Doctor,  *no  more,  even  as  regarded 
Margaret ;  but  thoughtlessness  should  not  have  been  treated  as  a 
crime.' 


THE   DAISY   CHAIX.  253 

*  I  wisli  Tve  could  see  him  otherwise,'  said  Richard. 

*  He  wants — '  and  there  Dr.  May  stopped  short,  and,  taking 
ap  his  candle,  slowly  mounted  the  stairs,  and  looked  into  Harry's 
room.  The  boy  was  in  bed,  but  started  up  on  hearing  his  father's 
step,  and  exclaimed,  '  Papa,  I  am  very  sorry  !    Is  Margaret  better  ? ' 

'  Yes,  she  is ;  and  I  understand  now,  Harry,  that  her  alarm  waJ 
an  accident.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  thinking  for  a  moment  that  it 
was  otherwise — ' 

'  Xo,'  interrupted  Harry,  '  of  course  I  could  never  mean  to 
frighten  her ;  but  I  did  not  leave  off  the  moment  1  saw  she  was 
afraid,  because  it  was  so  very  ridiculous,  and  I  did  not  guess  it 
would  hurt  her.' 

'  I  see,  my  honest  boy.  I  do  not  blame  you,  for  you  did  not 
know  how  much  harm  a  little  terror  does  to  a  person  in  her  helpless 
state.  But,  indeed,  Harry,  though  you  did  not  deserve  such  angor 
as  mine  was,  it  is  a  serious  thing  that  you  should  be  so  much  set  on 
fun  and  frolic  as  to  forget  all  considerations,  especially  at  such  a 
time  as  this.  It  takes  away  from  much  of  my  comfort  in  sending 
you  into  the  world  ;  and  for  higher  things — ^how  can  I  believe  you 
really  impressed  and  reverent,  if  the  next  minute — ' 

'I"m  not  fit !  I'm  not  fit ! '  sobbed  Harry,  hiding  his  face. 

'  Indeed,  I  hardly  know  whether  it  is  not  so,'  said  the  Doctor. 
'  You  are  under  the  usual  age,  and,  though  I  know  you  wish  to  be 
a  good  boy,  yet  I  don't  feel  sure  that  these  wild  spirits  do  not  carry 
away  everything  serious,  and  whether  it  is  right  to  bring  one  so 
thoughtless  to — ' 

'  No,  no,'  and  Harry  cried  bitterly,  and  his  father  was  deeply 
grieved,  but  no  more  could  then  be  said,  and  they  parted  for  the 
night — Dr.  May  saying,  as  he  went  away,  '  You  understand,  that 
it  is  not  as  a  punishment  for  your  trick,  if  I  do  not  take  you  to  Mr. 
Ramsden  for  a  ticket,  but  that  I  cannot  be  certain  whether  it  is 
right  to  bring  you  U-  such  solemn  privileges  while  you  do  not  seem 
to  me  to  retain  steadily  any  grave  or  deep  feelings.  Perhaps  your 
mother  would  have  better  helped  you.' 

And  Dr.  May  went  away,  to  mourn  over  what  he  viewed  as  far 
greater  sins  than  those  of  his  son. 

Anger  had,  indeed,  given  place  to  sorrow,  and  all  were  grave 
the  next  morning,  as  if  each  had  something  to  be  forgiven. 

Margaret,  especially,  felt  guilty  of  the  fears  which,  perhaps,  had 
cot  been  sufficiently  combated  in  her  days  of  health,  and  now  were 
beyond  control,  and  had  occasioned  so  much  pain.  Ethel  grieved 
over  the  words  she  had  yesterday  spoken  in  haste  of  her  father  and 
sister  ;  Mary  knew  herself  to  have  been  an  accomplice  in  the  joke, 
and  Xorman  blamed  himself  for  not  having  taken  the  trouble  to 
perceive  that  Harry  had  not  been  talking  rhodomontade,  when  ha 
had  communicated  '  his  capital  scheme  '  the  previous  morning. 

The  decision  as  to  the   Confirmation  was  a  great  grief  to  all. 


254  Tin-:  daisy  chain. 

Flora  consoled  herself  by  observing  that,  as  he  was  so  3'oung,  uu 
one  need  know  it,  nor  miss  him  ;  and  Ethel,  with  a  trembling,  almost 
sobbing  voice,  enumerated  all  Harry's  excellencies,  his  perfect  truth, 
his  kindness,  his  generosity,  his  flashes  of  intense  feeling — dcclarct] 
that  nobiuly  ought  to  be  Confirmed  if  he  were  not,  and  begged  and 
entreated  that  Mr.  Wilmot  might  be  written  to,  and  consulted.  Slie 
would  almost  have  done  so  herself,  if  Richard  had  not  shown  her 
that  it  would  be  uudutiful. 

Harry  himself  was  really  subdued.  He  made  no  question  as  to 
the  propriety  of  the  decision,  but  rather  felt  his  own  unworthiness, 
and  -was  completely  humbled  and  downcast.  When  a  note  came 
from  Mrs.  Anderson,  saying  that  she  was  convinced  that  it  could 
not  have  been  Dr.  May's  wish  that  she  should  be  exposed  to  the 
indignity  of  a  practical  joke,  and  that  a  young  lady  of  the  highest 
family  should  have  been  insulted,  no  one  had  spirits  (o  laugh  at  the 
terms ;  and  when  Dr.  May  said,  '  What  is  to  be  done  V '  Harry 
turned  crimson,  and  was  evidently  trying  to  utter  somethinff. 

'  I  see  nothing  for  it  but  for  him  to  ask  their  pardon,'  said  Dr. 
May — and  a  sound  was  heard,  not  very  articulate,  but  expressing 
full  assent. 

'  That  is  right,'  said  the  Doctor.     *  I'll  come  with  you.' 

'  0,  thank  you  ! '  cried  Harry,  looking  up. 

They  set  oflF  at  once.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  neither  an  unpleasing 
nor  unkind  person — her  chief  defect  being  a  blind  admiration  of  her 
sons  and  daughters,  which  gave  her,  in  speaking  of  them,  a  tone  of 
pretension  that  she  would  never  have  shown  on  her  own  account. 

Her  displeasure  was  pacified  in  a  moment  by  the  sight  of  the 
confused  contrition  of  the  culprit,  coupled  with  his  father's  frank 
and  kindly  tone  of  avowal,  that  it  had  been  a  foolish  improper  frolic, 
and  tliat  he  had  been  much  displeased  with  him  for  it. 

'  Say  no  more — pray  say  no  more.  Dr.  May.  We  all  know  how 
to  overlook  a  sailor's  frolic,  and,  I  am  sure.  Master  Harry's  present 
behaviour — but  you'll  take  a  bit  of  luncheon,'  and,  as  something 
was  said  of  going  home  to  the  early  dinner,  '  I  am  sure  you  will 
wait  one  minute.  INIastor  Harry  must,  have  a  piece  of  my  cake, 
and  allow  mc  to  drink  to  his  success.' 

Poor  jNIr.  May  !  to  be  called  Master  Harry,  and  treated  to  sweet 
cake  !  But  he  saw  his  father  thought  he  ought  to  endure,  and  ho 
even  said,  '  thank  you.' 

The  cake  stuck  in  his  throat,  however,  when  Mrs.  Anderson  and 
her  daughters  opened  their  full  course  of  praise  on  their  dear 
Harvey,  and  dearest  Edward,  telling  all  the  flattering  things  Dr. 
Hoxton  had  said  of  the  order  into  which  Harvey  had  brought  the 
school,  and  insisting  on  Dr.  May's  reading  the  copy  of  the  testi- 
monial that  he  had  carried  to  Oxford.  *  I  knew  you  would  be  kind 
enough  to  rejoice,'  .said  Mrs.  Anderson,  *  and  that  you  would  have 
00 — uo  feeling  about  Mr.  Norman ;  for,  of  course,  at  his  age,  a 


THE   DAISY    CIIALN'.  iiOO 

little  matter  is  notliing,  and  it  must  be  better  for  the  dear  boy 
himself  to  be  a  little  while  under  a  friend  like  Harvey,  than  to  have 
authority  while  so  young.' 

'  I  believe  it  has  done  him  no  harm,'  was  all  that  the  Doctor 
could  bring  himself  to  say ;  and  thinking  that  he  and  his  sons  had 
endured  quite  enough,  he  took  his  leave  as  soon  as  Harry  had  con- 
vulsively bolted  the  last  mouthful. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  all  the  way  home.  Harry's  own  trouble 
had  overpowered  even  this  subject  of  resentment.  On  Sunday,  the 
notice  of  the  Confirmation  was  read.  It  was  to  take  place  on  the 
following  Thursday,  and  all  those  who  had  already  given  in  their 
names,  were  to  come  to  Mr.  Eamsden  to  apply  fc:  their  tickets. 
While  this  was  read,  large  tear-drops  were  silently  falling  on  poor 
Harry's  book. 

Ethel  and  Norman  walked  together  in  the  twilight,  in  deep 
lamentation  over  their  brother's  deprivation,  which  seemed  espe- 
cially to  humble  them ;  '  for,'  said  Norman,  '  I  am  sure  no  one  can 
be  more  resolved  on  doing  right  than  Jidy,  and  he  has  got  through 
school  better  than  I  did.' 

Yes,'  said  Ethel ;  '  if  we  don't  get  into  his  sort  of  scrape,  it  is 
only  that  we  are  older,  not  better.  I  am  sure  mine  are  worse,  my 
letting  Aubrey  be  nearly  burnt — my  neglects.' 

'  Papa  must  be  doing  right,'  said  Norman, '  but  for  July  to  be 
turned  back  when  we  are  taken,  makes  me  think  of  man  judging 
only  by  outward  appearance.' 

'  A  few  outrageous-looking  acts  of  giddiness  that  are  so  much 
grieved  over,  may  not  be  half  so  bad  as  the  hundreds  of  wandering 
thoughts  that  ont":  forgets,  because  no  one  else  can  see  them !  '  said 
Ethel. 

Meanwhile,  Harry  and  Mary  were  sitting  twisted  together  into 
a  sort  jf  bundle,  on  the  same  footstool,  by  Margaret's  sofa.  Harry 
had  begged  of  her  to  hear  him  say  the  Catechism  once  more,  and 
Mary  had  joined  with  him  in  the  repetition.  There  was  to  be  only 
one  more  Sunday  at  home. 

'  And  that ! '  he  said,  and  sighed. 

Margaret  knew  what  he  meant,  for  the  Feast  was  to  be  spread 
for  those  newly  admitted  to  share  it.  She  only  said  a  caressing 
word  of  affection. 

'  I  wonder  when  I  shall  have  another  chance,'  said  Harry.  '  If 
we  should  get  to  Australia,  or  New  Zealand — but  then,  perhaps, 
there  would  be  no  Confirmation  going  on,  and  I  might  be  worse  by 
that  time.' 

•  0,  you  must  not  let  that  be  ! ' 

'  Why,  you  see,  if  I  can't  be  good  here,  with  all  this  going  on, 
what  shall  I  do  among  those  fellows,  away  from  all  ?  ' 
'  You  will  have  one  friend  ! ' 
'  Mr.  Ernescliffe  !     You  are  always  thinking  of  him,  Margaret, 


256  Tin-:  daisy  chain. 

but  perhaps  he  may  not  go,  and  if  be  should,  a  lieutenant  cannot  dc 
much  for  a  midshipman.  No,  I  tliought,  when  I  was  reading  with 
my  father,  that  aomchow,  it  might  help  me  to  do  what  it  called  put- 
ting away  chiklish  things — don't  you  know  ?  I  might  be  able  tc 
be  stronger  and  steadier,  somehow  And  then,  if — if — you  know, 
if  I  did  tumble  overboard,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort,  there  is  ihat 
about  the — what  they  will  go  to  next  Sunday,  being  necessary  to 
salvation.' 

Harry  laid  down  his  head  and  cried  ;  Margaret  could  not  speak 
for  tears  ;  and  ]Mary  was  incoherently  protesting  against  any  notion 
of  his  falling  overboard. 

'  It  is  generally  necessary,  Harry,'  Margaret  said,  at  last — '  not 
in  impossible  cases.' 

'  Yes,  if  it  had  been  impossible,  but  it  was  not ;  if  I  had  not 
been  a  mad  goose  all  this  time,  but  when  a  bit  of  fun  gets  hold  of 
me,  I  can't  tliink.  And  if  I  am  too  bad  for  that,  I  am  too  bad 
for — foi* — and  I  shall  never  sec  mamma  again  !  Margaret,  it 
almost  makes  me  af — afraid  to  sail.' 

'  Harry,  don't,  don't  talk  so  !  '  sobbed  Mary.  '  0  do  como  .o 
papa,  and  let  us  beg  and  pray.  Take  hold  of  my  hand,  and  Mar- 
garet will  beg  too,  and  when  he  sees  how  sorry  you  are,  I  am  sure 
he  will  forgive,  and  let  you  be  Confirmed.'  She  would  have  dragged 
him  after  licr. 

'  Xo,  Mary,'  said  Harry,  resisting  her.  '  It  is  not  that  he  does 
not  forgive.  You  don't  understand.  It  is  what  is  right.  And  he 
cannot  help  it,  or  make  it  right  for  me,  if  I  am  such  a  horrid  wretch 
that  I  can't  keep  grave  thoughts  in  my  head.  I  might  do  it  again 
after  that,  just  the  same.' 

'  You  have  been  grave  enough  of  late  ! '  said  Mary. 

'  This  was  enough  to  make  me  so,'  said  Harry ;  '  but  even  at 
Church,  sine  i  I  came  home,  I  have  behaved  ill  !  I  kicked  Tom,  to 
make  him  look  at  old  Levitt  asleep,  and  then  I  went  on,  because  he 
did  not  like  it.     I  know  I  am  too  idle.' 

On  the  Tuesday,  Dr.  May  had  said  he  would  take  Norman  and 
Etheldred  to  Mr.  llamsden.  Ethel  was  gravely  putting  on  her 
walking-dress,  when  she  heard  her  father's  voice  calling  Harry,  and 
she  started  witli  a  joyful  hope. 

There,  indeed,  when  she  came  down  stairs,  stood  Harry,  his  cap 
ill  his  hand,  and  his  face  seriou?,  but  with  a  look  on  it  that  Jiad  as 
mucli  subdued  joy,  as  awe. 

'  Dear,  dear  Harry  I  you  arc  going  with  us  then  ? ' 

'  Yes,  papa  wrote  to  ask  what  Mr.  "Wilmot  thought,  and  he 
eaid — ' 

Harry  broke  off,  as  his  father  advanced,  and  gave  her  the  letter 
itself  to  read.  Mr.  Wilmot  answered,  that  he  certainly  should  not 
refuse  sucli  a  boy  as  Harry,  on  the  proof  of  such  entire  penitence 
and  deep  feeling.     Whether  to  bring  him  to  the  further  privilege, 


THE   DAISY   CHATX.  257 

miglit  be  another  question  ;  but,  as  far  as  the  Confirmation  was  con- 
cerned, the  opinion  was  decided. 

Norman  and  Ethel  were  too  happy  for  words,  as  they  went  arm 
in  arm  along  the  street,  leaving  their  dear  sailor  to  be  leant  on  by 
his  father. 

Harry's  sadness  was  gone,  but  he  still  was  guarded  and  gentle, 
during  the  few  days  that  followed;  he  seemed  to  have  learnt 
thought,  and  in  his  gratitude  for  the  privileges  he  had  so  nearly 
missed,  to  rate  them  more  highly  than  he  might  otherwise  have 
done.  Indeed,  the  doubt  for  the  Sunday  gave  him  a  sense  of 
probation. 

The  Confirmation  day  came.  Mr.  Rivers  had  asked  that  his 
daughter  might  be  with  Miss  May,  and  Ethel  had  therefore  to  be 
called  for  in  the  Abbotstoke  carriage,  quite  contrary  to  her  wishes, 
as  she  had  set  her  heart  on  the  walk  to  Church  with  her  father  and 
brothers.  Flora  would  not  come,  for  fear  of  crowding  Mr.  Rivers, 
who,  with  Mrs.  Larpent,  accompanied  his  darling. 

'  0  Margaret,'  said  Flora,  after  putting  her  sister  into  the 
carriage,  '  I  wish  we  had  put  Ethel  into  a  veil !  There  is  Meta  all 
white  from  head  to  foot,  with  feuch  a  veil !  and  Ethel,  in  her  little 
white  cap,  looks  as  if  she  might  be  Lucy  Taylor,  only  not  so 
pretty.' 

'  Mamma  thought  the  best  rule  was  to  take  the  dress  that  needs 
least  attention  from  ourselves,  and  will  be  least  noticed,'  said 
Margaret. 

'  There  is  Fanny  Anderson  gone  by  in  the  fly  with  a  white  veil 
on  ! '  cried  Mary,  dashing  in. 

'  Then  I  am  glad  Ethel  has  not  one,'  said  Flora. 

Margaret  looked  annoyed,  but  she  had  not  found  the  means  of 
checking  Flora  without  giving  offence ;  and  she  could  only  call 
Mary  and  Blanche  to  order,  beg  them  to  think  of  what  the  others 
were  doing,  and  offer  to  read  to  them  a  little  tale  on  Confirmation. 

Flora  sat  and  worked,  and  Margaret,  stealing  a  glance  at  her, 
vmderstood,  that,  in  her  quiet  way,  she  resented  the  implied  reproof. 
'  Making  the  children  think  me  worldly  and  frivolous  ! '  she  thought, 
*  as  if  Margaret  did  not  know  that  I  think  and  feel  as  much  as  any 
reasonable  person  ! ' 

The  party  came  home  in  due  time,  and,  after  one  kiss  to  Mar- 
garet, given  in  silence,  dispersed,  for  they  could  not  yet  talk  of  what 
had  passed. 

Only  Ethel,  as  she  met  Richard  on  the  stairs,  said,  '  Ritchie, 
do  you  know  what  the  Bishop's  text  was  ?  "  No  man  having  put 
his  hand  to  the  plough,  and  looking  back,  is  fit  for  the  kingdom  of 
God."  ' 

'  Yes  ?  '  said  Richard,  interrogatively. 

'  I  thought  it  might  be  a  voice  to  me,'  said  Ethel ;  '  besides 
fi-hat  it  says  to  all,  about  our  Christian  course.     It  seems  to  tell 


*2r)S  Tine   DAISY   CIIAIK. 

me  uot  to  be  out  of  heart  about  all  those  vexations  at  Cocksnioor 
Is  it  not  a  sort  of  putting  our  hand  to  the  plough  ?  ' 

Dr.  Maj'  gave  his  own  history  of  the  Confirmation  to  Margaret, 
'  It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  watch,'  he  said,  '  the  faces  of  our  owe 
set.  Those  four  were  really  like  a  poem.  There  was  little  Meta  in 
her  snowy  whitoiicss,  looking  like  innocence  itself,  hardly  knowing 
of  evil,  or  pain,  or  struggle,  as  that  soft  earnest  voice  made  her  vow 
to  be  ready  for  it  all,  almost  as  unscathed  and  unconscious  of  trial, 
as  when  they  made  it  for  her  at  her  baptism — pretty  little  thing — 
may  she  long  be  as  happy.  And  for  our  own  Ethel,  she  looked  as 
if  she  was  promising  on  and  on,  straight  into  eternity.  I  heard  her 
"  I  (io,"  dear  child,  and  it  was  in  such  a  tone  as  if  she  meant  to  be 
ever  doingJ' 

'  And  for  the  boys  ? ' 

'  There  was  Norman  grave  and  steadfast,  as  if  he  knew  what  he 
was  about,  and  was  manfully  and  calmly  ready — he  might  have  been 
a  3"oung  knight,  watching  his  armour.' 

'  And  so  he  is  ! '  said  Margaret,  softly.     '  And  poor  Harry  ? ' 

The  Doctor  could  hardly  command  voice  to  tell  her.  *  Poor 
Harry,  he  was  last  of  all,  he  turned  his  back  and  looked  into  the 
corner  of  the  seat,  till  all  the  voices  had  spoken,  and  then  turned 
about  in  haste,  and  the  two  words  came  on  the  end  of  a  sob.' 

'  You  will  not  keep  him  away  on  Sunday  ? '  said  Margaret. 

*  Far  be  it  from  me.  I  know  not  who  should  come,  if  he  should 
not.' 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

'  What  inattcr,  wlietlier  throngb  deligbt, 
Or  Icil  tliiough  vale  of  tears, 
Or  soon  fit  onco,  or  hid  from  sight, 

Tlio  glorious  way  appears  ? 
If  step  by  step  tlie  palli  we  see. 
That  leads,  my  Saviour,  up  to  theol' 

•  I  COULD  not  help  it,'  said  Dr.  May — '  that  little  witch — ' 

'  Meta  Rivers  ?     Oh  !  what,  papa  ?  ' 

'  It  seems  that  Wednesday  is  her  birthday,  and  nothing  will 
Ecrvc  her  but  to  eat  her  dinner  in  the  old  Roman  camp.' 

'  And  are  we  to  go  ?     0  which  of  us  ? ' 

*  Everyone  of  anything  like  rational  years.  Blanche  is  espe- 
cially invited.' 

There  were  transports  till  it  was  recollected,  that  on  Thursday 
morning  school  would  recommence,  and  that  on  Friday  Harry  must 
join  his  ship. 

However,  the  Roman  camp  had  long  been  an  object  of  their 
desires,  and  ^Margaret  was  glad  that  the  last  day  should  have  a 
brilliancy,  so  she  would  not  hear  of  anyone  remaining  to  keep  her 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  259 

company,  talked  of  the  profit  slie  should  gain  by  a  leisure  da_y,  and 
took  ardent  interesl  in  everyone's  preparations  and  expectations,  in 
Ethel's  researches  into  country  histories  and  classical  dictionaries. 
Flora's  sketching  intentions,  Norman's  promises  of  campanula  glo- 
merata,  and  a  secret  whispered  into  her  ear  by  Mary  and  Harry. 

'  Meta's  weather,'  as  they  said,  when  the  August  sun  rose  fresh 
and  joyous  ;  and  great  was  the  unnecessary  bustle,  and  happy  con- 
fusion, from  six  o'clock  till  eleven,  when  Dr.  May,  who  was  going 
to  visit  patients  some  way  further  on  the  same  road,  carried  ofi" 
Harry  and  Mary,  to  set  them  down  at  the  place. 

The  rest  were  called  for  by  Mr.  K-ivers's  carriage  and  break. 
Mrs.  Charles  Wilmot  and  her  little  girl  were  the  only  additions  to 
the  party,  and  Meta,  putting  Blanche  into  the  carriage  to  keep 
company  with  her  contemporary,  went  herself  in  the  break.  What 
a  brilliant  little  fairy  she  was,  in  her  pink  summer  robes,  fluttering 
like  a  butterfly,  and  with  the  same  apparent  felicity  in  basking  in 
joy,  all  gaiety,  glee,  and  light-heartedness  in  making  others  happy. 
On  they  went,  through  honey-suckled  lanes,  catching  glimpses  of 
sunny  fields  of  corn  falling  before  the  reaper,  and  happy  knots  of 
harvest  folks  dining  beneath  the  shelter  of  their  sheaves,  with  the 
sturdy  old  green  umbrella  sheltering  them  from  the  sun. 

Snatches  of  song,  peals  of  laughter,  merry  nonsense,  passed  from 
one  to  the  other;  Norman,  roused  into  blitheness,  found  wit,  the 
young  ladies  found  laughter,  and  Richard's  eyes  and  mouth  looked 
very  pretty,  as  they  smiled  their  quiet  diversion. 

At  last,  his  face  drawn  all  into  one  silent  laugh,  he  directed  the 
eyes  of  the  rest  to  a  high  green  mound,  rising  immediately  before 
them,  where  stood  two  little  figures,  one  with  a  spy-glass,  intently 
gazing  the  opposite  way. 

At  the  same  time  came  the  halt,  and  Norman,  bounding  out, 
Bprang  lightly  and  nimbly  up  the  side  of  the  mound,  and,  while  the 
Bpy-glass  was  yet  pointed  full  at  Wales,  had  hold  of  a  pair  of  stout 
legs,  and  with  the  words,  '  Keep  a  good  look  out ! '  had  tumbled 
Mr.  May  headforemost  down  the  grassy  slope,  with  Mary  rolling  after. 

Harry's  first  outcry  was  for  his  precious  glass — his  second  was, 
not  at  his  fall,  but  that  they  should  have  come  from  the  east,  when, 
by  the  compass,  Stoneborough  was  north-north-west.  And  then 
the  boys  took  to  tumbling  over  one  another,  while  Meta  frolicked 
joyously,  with  Nipen  after  her,  up  and  down  the  mounds,  chased  by 
Mary  and  Blanche,  who  were  wild  with  glee. 

By-and-by  she  joined  Ethel,  and  Norman  was  summoned  to  help 
them  to  trace  out  the  old  lines  of  encampment,  ditch,  rampart,  and 
gates — happy  work  on  those  slopes  of  fresh  turf,  embroidered  with 
every  minute  blossom  of  the  moor — ^thyme,  birdsfopt,  eyebright, 
and  dwarf  purple  thistle,  buzzed  and  hummed  over  by  busy,  black- 
tailed,  yellow-banded  dumbledores,  the  breezy  wind  blowing  softly 
in  their  faces,  and  the  expanse  of  country-wooded  hill,  verdant 


'2G0  Tiiii:  DAISY    cirAix. 

pasture,   amber  harvest-field,  winding  river,  smotc-canopied-to^vn 
and  brown  moor,  melting  greyly  away  to  the  mountain  heads. 

Kow  in  sun,  now  in  shade,  the  bright  young  antiquaries  survcycc? 
the  old  banks,  and  talked  wisely  of  vallum  and  fossa,  of  legion  and 
cohort,  of  Agricola  and  Suetonius,  and  discussed  the  delightful 
probability,  that  tliis  might  have  been  raised  in  the  -war  with 
Caractacus,  whence,  argued  Ethel,  since  Caractacus  was  certainly 
Arviragus,  it  must  have  been  the  very  spot  where  Imogen  met 
Posthumus  again.  Was  not  yonder  the  very  high  road  to  Milford 
Haven,  and  thus  must  not  '  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb '  be  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  ? 

Then  followed  the  suggestion  tliat  the  mound  in  the  middle  was 
a  good  deal  like  an  ancient  tomb,  where,  as  Blanche  interposed  with 
some  of  the  lore  lately  caught  from  Ethel's  studies,  *  they  used  to 
bury  their  tears  in  wheelbarrows,'  while  Norman  observed  it  was 
the  more  probable,  as  fair  Fidele  never  was  buried  at  all. 

The  idea  of  a  search  enchanted  the  young  ladies.  '  It  was  the 
right  sort  of  vehicle,  evidently,'  said  Konnan,  looking  at  Harry, 
who  had  been  particularly  earnest  in  recommending  that  it  should 
be  explored ;  and  Mcta  declari'd  that  if  they  could  but  find  the 
least  trace,  her  papa  would  be  delighted  to  go  regularly  to  work, 
and  reveal  all  the  treasures. 

Richard  seemed  a  little  afraid  of  the  responsibility  of  treasure- 
trove,  but  he  was  overruled  by  a  chorus  of  eager  voices,  and 
dispossessed  of  the  trowel,  which  he  had  brought  to  dig  up  some 
down-gentians  for  the  garden.  "While  Norman  set  to  work  as 
pioneer,  some  skipped  about  in  wild  ecstasy,  and  Ethel  knelt  dowF 
to  peer  into  the  hole. 

Very  soon  there  was  a  discovery — an  eager  outcry — some  pot 
tery  !  Roman  vessels — a  red  thing  that  might  have  been  a  lamp 
another  that  might  have  been  a  lachrymatory. 

'Well,'  said  Ethel,  '  you  know,  Norman,  I  always  told  you  thai 
the  children'.s  pots  and  pans  in  the  clay  ditch  were  very  like  Roman 
pottery.' 

'  Posthumus's  patty  pan  ! '  said  Norman,  holding  it  up.  '  Nc 
doubt  this  was  the  bottle  filled  with  the  old  queen's  tears  when 
Cloten  was  killed.' 

'  You  see  it  is  very  small,'  added  Harry;  '  she  could  not  squeeze 
out  many.' 

'  Come  now,  I  do  believe  you  are  laughing  at  it !  '  said  Meta, 
taking  the  derided  vessels  into  her  hands.  '  Now,  they  really  are 
genuine,  and  very  curious  things,  ore  not  they,  Flora?' 

Flora  and  Ethel  admired  and  speculated  till  there  was  a  fresh, 
and  still  more  exciting  discovery — a  coin,  actually  a  medal,  with 
the  head  of  an  emperor  upon  it — not  a  doubt  of  his  high  nose  being 
Roman.  Meta  was  certain  that  she  knew  one  exactly  like  him 
among  her  father's  gems.     Ethel  was  resolved  that  he  should  bo 


THE   DAISY    CnAIN,  261 

Claudius,  and  began  decyphering  the  defaced  inscription  THVRVS. 
She  tried  Claudius's  whole  torrent  of  names,  and,  at  last,  made  it 
into  a  contraction  of  Tiberius,  which  highly  satisfied  her. 

Then  Meta,  in  her  turn,  read  D.  V.  X.,  which,  as  Ethel  said, 
was  all  she  could  wish — of  course  it  was  dux  et  imperator,  and 
Harry  muttered  into  Norman's  car,  '  ducks  and  geese  !  '  and  then 
heaved  a  sigh,  as  he  thought  of  the  Dux  no  longer.  '  V.  V.,'  con- 
tinued Meta,  '  what  can  that  mean  ?  ' 

'  Five,  five,  of  course,'  said  Flora. 

'  No,  no  !  I  have  it,  Venus  Vicirix,''  said  Ethel,  '  the  ancestral 
\''enus  !  Ha  !  don't  you  see  ?  there  she  is  on  the  other  side,  crown- 
ing Claudius.' 

'  Then  there  is  an  E  ! ' 

'  Something  about  ^neas,'  suggested  Norman,  gravely. 

But  Ethel  was  sure  that  could  not  be,  because  there  was  no 
diphthong ;  and  a  fresh  theory  was  just  being  started,  when  Blanche's 
head  Avas  thrust  in  to  know  what  made  them  all  so  busy. 

'  Why,  Ethel,  what  are  you  doing  with  Harry's  old  medal  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellmgton  ?  ' 

Poor  Meta  and  Ethel,  what  a  downfall !  Meta  was  sure  that 
Norman  had  known  it  the  whole  time,  and  he  owned  to  having 
■juessed  it  from  Harry's  importunity  for  the  search.  Harry  and 
Wary  had  certainly  made  good  use  of  their  time,  and  great  was  the 
mirth  over  the  trap  so  cleverly  set — the  more  when  it  was  disclosed 
that  Dr.  May  had  been  a  full  participator  in  the  scheme,  had  sug- 
gested the  addition  of  the  pottery,  had  helped  Harry  to  some  liquid 
40  efface  part  of  the  inscription,  and  had  even  come  up  with  thera 
lO  plant  the  snare  in  the  most  plausible  corner  for  researches. 

Meta,  enchanted  with  the  joke,  flew  ofi"  to  try  to  take  in  her 
governess  and  Mrs.  Wilmot,  whom  she  found  completing  their 
leisurely  promenade,  aud  considering  where  they  should  spread  the 
dinner. 

The  sight  of  those  great  baskets  of  good  fare  was  appetizing, 
and  the  company  soon  collected  on  the  shady  turf,  where  Bichard 
made  himself  extremely  useful,  and  the  feast  was  spread  without 
any  worse  mishap  than  Nipen's  running  away  with  half  a  chicken, 
of  which  he  was  robbed,  as  Tom  reported,  by  a  surly  looking  dog 
that  watched  in  the  outskirts  of  the  camp,  and  caused  Tom  to  return 
aoarly  as  fast  as  the  poor  little  white  marauder. 

Meta  '  very  immorally,'  as  Norman  told  her,  comforted  Nipon 
with  a  large  share  of  her  sandwiches.  Harry  armed  himself  with 
a  stick,  and  Mary  with  a  stone,  and  marched  off  to  the  attack,  but 
saw  no  signs  of  the  enemy,  and  had  begun  to  believe  him  a  figment 
of  Tom's  imagination,  when  Mary  spied  him  under  a  busb,  lying  at 
the  feet  of  a  boy,  with  whom  he  was  sharing  the  spoil. 

Harry  called  out  rather  roughly,.  '  Hollo !  what  are  vou  doir.g 
there  ? ' 


262  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

The  boy  jumped  up,  the  dog  growled,  Mary  shrank  behind  hoi 
brother,  and  begged  hiiu  not  to  be  cross  to  the  poor  boy,  but  tc 
oome  away.     Harry  repeated  his  question. 

'Please,  Sir,  Toby  brought  it  to  me.' 

'  What,  is  Toby  your  dog  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  Sir. 

*  Arc  you  so  Imngry  as  to  eat  dog's  meat  ? ' 

*  I  have  not  had  nothing  before  to-day.  Sir.' 
'  Why,  where  do  you  live  ?  hereabouts  ?  ' 

'  0  no.  Sir ;  I  lived  with  grandmother  up  in  Cheshire,  but  sho 
is  dead  now,  and  father  is  just  come  home  from  sea,  and  he  wrote 
down  I  was  to  be  sent  to  him  at  Portsmouth,  to  go  to  sea  with  him.' 

'  How  do  you  live  ?  do  you  beg  your  way  ?  ' 

'  No,  Sir ;  father  sent  up  a  pound  in  a  letter,  only  Narvny  Brooks 
said  I  owed  some  to  her  for  my  victuals,  and  I  have  not  much  of  it 
left,  and  bread  comes  dear,  so  when  Toby  brought  me  this  bit  of 
meat,  I  was  glad  of  it,  Sir,  but  I  would  not  have  taken  it — ' 

The  boy  was  desired  to  wait  while  the  brother  and  sister,  in 
breathless  excitement,  rushed  back  with  their  story. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  was  at  first  inclined  to  fear  that  the  naval  part  of 
it  had  been  inspired  by  Harry's  uniform,  but  the  examination  of 
Jem  Jennings  put  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  he  spoke  nothing  but  the 
truth;  and  tlie  choicest  deliglit  of  the  feast  was  tlie  establishing 
him  and  Toby  behind  the  barrow,  and  feeding  them  with  such 
viands  as  they  had  probably  never  seen  before. 

The  boy  could  not  read  writing,  but  he  had  his  father's  letter  iu 
nis  pocket,  and  Mary  capered  at  the  delightful  coincidence,  on  find- 
ing that  Jem  Jennings  was  actually  a  quarter-master  on  board  tlie 
Alcestis.  It  gave  a  sort  of  property  iu  the  boy,  and  she  ahnost 
grudged  Meta  the  having  been  first  to  say  that  she  would  pay  for 
the  rest  of  his  journey,  instead  of  doing  it  by  subscription. 

However,  Mary  had  a  consolation,  she  would  oQ'er  to  take  cliarge 
of  Tob%  who,  as  Harry  observed,  would  otherwise  have  been  drowned 
— he  oould  not  be  taken  on  board.  To  be  sure,  he  was  a  particu- 
larly ugly  animal,  rough,  grisly,  short-legged,  long-backed,  and  with 
an  apology  for  a  tail — but  he  had  a  redeeming  pair  of  eyes,  and  he 
and  Jem  lived  on  terms  of  such  close  friendship,  that  he  would  have 
been  miserable  in  leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  Nanny  Brooks. 

So,  after  their  meal,  Jem  and  Toby  were  bidden  to  wait  for 
Dr.  May's  coming,  and  fell  asleep  together  on  the  green  bank,  while 
the  rest  cither  sketclied,  or  wandered,  or  botanized.  Flora  acted 
the  grown-up  lady  with  Mr.s.  Wilmot,  and  Meta  found  herself  sitting 
by  Ethel,  asking  her  a  great  many  questions  about  JIargaret,  and 
her  home,  and  what  it  could  be  like  to  be  one  of  such  a  numerous 
family.  Flora  had  always  turned  aside  from  personal  matters,  as 
uninteresting  to  her  companion,  and,  in  spite  of  Meta's  admiration, 
and  the  mutual  wish  to  be  intimate,  confidence   did  not  spring  uj: 


TKB   DAISY   CHAIN.  263 

spontaneously,  as  it  had  done  with  the  Doctor,  and,  in  that  single 
hour,  with  Margaret.  Blunt  as  Ethel  was,  her  heartiness  of  manner 
gave  a  sense  of  real  progress  in  friendship.  Their  Confirmation 
vows  seemed  to  make  a  link,  and  Meta's  unfeigned  enthusiasm  for 
the  Doctor  was  the  sure  road  to  Ethel's  heart.  She  was  soon  telling 
how  glad  Margaret  was  that  he  had  been  drawn  into  taking  pleasure 
in  to-day's  scheme,  since^  not  only  were  his  spirits  tried  by  the 
approach  of  Harry's  departure,  but  he  had,  within  the  last  few 
days,  been  made  very  sad  by  reading  and  answering  Aunt  Flora's  first 
letter  on  the  news  of  last  October's  misfortune. 

*  My  aunt  in  New  Zealand,'  explained  Ethel. 

'  Have  you  an  aunt  in  New  Zealand  ?  '  cried  Meta.  '  I  never 
heard  of  her  ! ' 

'  Did  not  you  ?  Oh  !  she  does  write  such  charminof  Ions;  let- 
ters!'  °        ^ 

'  Is  she  Dr.  May's  sister  ?  ' 

'  No  ;  he  was  an  only  child.  She  is  dear  mamma's  sister.  I 
don't  remember  her,  for  she  went  out  when  I  was  a  baby,  but 
Kichard  and  Margaret  were  so  fond  of  her.  They  say  she  used  to 
play  with  them  and  tell  them  stories,  and  sing  Scotch  songs  to  them, 
Margaret  says  the  first  sorrow  of  her  life  was  Aunt  Flora's  going 
away.' 

'  Did  she  live  with  them  ?  ' 

'  Yes;  after  grandpapa  died,  she  came  to  live  with  them,  but 
then  Mr.  Arnott  came  about.  I  ought  not  to  speak  evil  of  him, 
for  he  is  my  godfather,  but  we  do  wish  ha  had  not  carried  oif  Aunt 
Flora  !  That  letter  of  hers  showed  me  what  a  comfort  it  would  be 
to  papa  to  have  her  here.' 

'  Perhaps  she  will  come.' 

'  No ;  tJncle  Arnott  has  too  much  to  do.  It  was  a  f)retty 
story  altogether.  He  was  an  officer  at  Edinburgh,  and  fell  in  love 
with  Aunt  Flora,  but  my  grandfather  Mackenzie  thought  him  too 
poor  to  marry  her,  and  it  was  all  broken  off,  and  they  tried  to  think 
no  more  of  it.  But  grandpapa  died,  and  she  came  to  live  here,  and 
somehow  Mr.  Arnott  turned  up  again,  quartered  at  Whitford,  and 
papa  talked  over  my  Uncle  Mackenzie,  and  helped  them — and  Mr. 
Arnott  thought  the  best  way  would  be  to  go  out  to  the  colonies.  They 
went  when  New  Zealand  was  very  new,  and  a  very  funny  life  they 
had  !  Once  they  had  their  house  burnt  in  Heki's  rebellion — and 
Aunt  Flora  saw  a  Maori  walking  about  in  her  best  Sunday  bonnet- 
but,  in  general,  everything  has  gone  on  very  well,  and  he  has  a  great 
farm,  besides  an  office  under  government.' 

*  Oh ;  so  he  went  out  as  a  settler ;  I  was  in  hopes  it  was  as  a 
missionary ' 

'  I  fancy  Aunt  Flora  has  done  a  good  deal  that  may  be  called 
missionary  work,'  said  Ethel, '  teaching  the  Maori  women  and  girls. 
They  call  her  mother,  and  she   has  quite  a  doctor's  shop  for  them, 


2G4:  Tin:    DAISY    CII.UN. 

i.nd  tries  bard  to  teach  them  to  take  proper  care  of  their  poor  littlo 
children,  when  they  are  ill — and  she  cuts  out  clothes  for  the  whole 
pah,  that  is,  the  village.' 

'  And  are  they  Christians  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  to  be  sure  they  are  now  !  They  meet  in  the  pah  for  pray- 
ers every  morning  and  evening — they  used  to  have  a  hoe  struck 
against  a  bit  of  metal  for  a  signal,  and  when  papa  heard  of  it,  he 
gave  them  a  bell,  and  they  were  so  delighted.  Now  there  comes  a 
Clergyman  every  fourth  Sunday,  and,  on  the  others,  Uncle  Arnott 
reads  part  of  the  service  to  the  English  near,  and  the  Maori  teacher 
to  his  people.' 

Mcta  a.skcd  ravenously  for  more  details,  and  when  she  had  pretty 
well  exhausted  Ethel's  stock,  she  said, '  How  nice  it  must  be  !  Ethel, 
did  you  ever  read  the  "  Faithful  Little  Girl  ?  "  ' 

'  Yes ;  it  was  one  of  Margaret's  old  Sunday  books.  I  often  re- 
collected it  before  I  was  allowed  to  begin  Cocksmoor.' 

'  I'm  afraid  I  am  very  like  Lucilla  ! '  said  Meta. 

'  What  ?  In  wishing  to  be  a  boy,  that  you  might  be  a  Mission- 
ary !  '  said  Ethel.  '  Not  in  being  quite  so  cross  at  home  ?  '  she 
added,  laughing. 

*  I  am  not  cross,  because  I  have  no  opportunity,'  said  Meta. 

'No  opportunity.  Oh,  Metal  if  people  wish  to  be  cross,  it  is 
easy  enough  to  find  grounds  for  it.  There  is  always  the  moon  to 
cry  for.' 

'  Really  and  truly,'  said  Meta,  thoughtfully,  '  I  never  do  meet 
with  any  reasonable  trial  of  temper,  and  I  am  often  afraid  it  can- 
not be  right  or  safe  to  live  so  entirely  at  ease,  and  without  contra- 
dictions.' 

'  Well,  but — '  said  Ethel,  '  it  is  the  state  of  life  in  which  you 
are  placed.' 

'  Yes,  but  are  we  meant  never  to  have  vexations  ?  ' 

'  I  thought  you  had  them,'  said  Ethel.  '  Margaret  told  me 
about  your  maid.  That  would  have  worried  some  people,  and  made 
them  horridly  ci'oss.' 

'  Oh  !  no  rational  person,'  cried  Mcta,  '  It  was  so  nice  to  think 
of  her  being  with  the  poor  mother,  and  I  was  quite  interested  in 
managing  for  myself;  besides,  you"  know,  it  was  just  a  proof  how 
one  learns  to  be  selfish,  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  I 
ought  to  spare  her.' 

'  And  your  school  children — vou  were  in  some  trouble  about 
them  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  that  is  pleasure.' 

'  I  thought  you  had  a  class  you  did  not  like.' 

'  I  like  them  now — they  are  such  steady  plodding  girls,  so  much 
in  earnest,  and  one,  that  has  beeu  neglected,  is  so  pleased  and 
touched  by  kindness.  I  would  not  give  them  up  for  anything  now — 
they  are  just  fit  for  my  capacity.' 


Tire   DAISY    CHAIN.  265 

'  Do  jou  mean  that  nothing  ever  goes  wrong  with  you,  or  that 
you  do  not  mind  anything — which  ?  ' 

'  Nothing  goes  wrong  enough  with  me  to  give  me  a  handsome 
excuse  for  minding  it.' 

'  Then  it  must  be  all  your  good  temper.' 

'  T  don't  think  so,'  said  Meta — '  it  is  that  nothing  is  ever  disa- 
greeable to  me.' 

'  Stay,'  said  Ethel,  '  if  the  ill-temper  was  in  you,  you  would  only 
be  the  crosser  for  being  indulged — at  least,  so  books  say.  And  I 
am  sure  myself,  that  it  is  not  whether  things  are  disagreeable  or 
not,  but  whether  one's  will  is  with  them,  that  signifies.' 

'  I  don't  quite  understand.' 

'  Why — I  have  seen  the  boys  do  for  play,  and  done  myself,  what 
would  have  been  a  horrid  hardship  if  one  had  been  made  to  do  it. 
I  never  liked  any  lessons  as  well  as  those  I  did  without  being  obliged, 
and  always,  when  there  is  a  thing  I  hate  very  much  in  itself,  I  can  get 
up  an  interest  in  it,  by  resolving  that  I  will  do  it  well,  or  fast,  .tv 
something — if  I  can  stick  my  will  to  it,  it  is  like  a  lever,  and  it  is 
done.  Now  I  think  it  must  be  the  same  with  you,  only  your  will 
ts  more  easily  set  at  it  than  mine.' 

'  What  makes  me  uncomfortable  is,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  never 
followed  anything  but  my  will.' 

Ethel  screwed  up  her  face,  as  if  the  eyes  of  her  mind  were  pur- 
ming  some  thought  almost  beyond  her.  '  If  our  will  and  our  duty 
•un  the  same,'  she  said,  '  that  can't  be  wrong.  The  better  people 
ire,  the  more  they  "  love  what  He  commands,"  you  know.  In 
fleaven  they  have  no  will  but  His.' 

'  Oh  !  but  Ethel,'  cried  Meta  distressed,  '  that  is  putting  it  too 
nigh.  Won't  you  understand  what  I  mean  ?  We  have  learnt  so 
much  lately  about  self-denial,  and  crossing  one's  own  inclinations, 
and  enduring  hardness.  And  here  I  live  with  two  dear  kind  peo- 
ple, who  only  try  to  keep  every  little  annoyance  from  my  path.  I 
can't  wish  for  a  thing  without  getting  it — I  am  waited  on  all  day 
long,  and  I  feel  like  one  of  the  women  that  are  at  ease — one  of  the 
careless  daughters.' 

'  I  think  still  papa  would  say  it  was  your  happy  contented  tem- 
per that  made  you  find  no  vexation.' 

'  But  that  sort  of  iemper  is  not  goodness.  I  was  born  with  it ; 
I  never  did  mind  anything,  not  even  being  punished,  they  say,  unless 
I  knew  papa  was  grieved,  which  always  did  make  me  unhappy 
enough.  I  laughed,  and  went  to  play  most  saucily,  whatever  they 
did  to  me.  If  I  had  striven  for  the  temper,  it  would  be  worth 
having,  but  it  is  my  nature.  And  Ethel,'  she  added,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  '  don't  you  remember  last  Sunday  ? 
I  felt  myself  so  vain  and  petted  a  thing  !  as  if  I  had  no  share  in  the 
Cup  of  suffering,  and  did  not  deserve  to  call  myself  a  member — it 
geemed  ungrateful.' 
Vol.  I.— 12 


206  TIIK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

Ethel  felt  ashamed,  as  she  heard  of  warmer  feelinga  than  her 
own  had  been,  expressed  in  that  lowered  trembling  voice,  and  she 
souglit  fi)r  the  answer  that  would  only  come  to  her  mind  in  sense, 
not  at  Crst  in  words.  '  Discipline,'  said  she,  '  would  not  that  show  the 
willingness  to  have  the  part?  Taking  the  right  times  for  refusing 
oneself  some  pleasant  thing.' 

'  Would  not  that  be  only  making  up  something  for  oneself?  '  said 
Msta. 

'  No,  the  Church  orders  it.  It  is  in  the  Prayer-book,'  said 
Ethel.  '  I  mean  one  can  do  little  secret  things — not  read  story 
books  on  those  days,  or  keep  some  tiresome  sort  of  work  for  them. 
It  is  very  trumpery,  but  it  keeps  the  remembrance,  aLd  it  is  not  so 
much  as  if  one  did  not  heed.' 

'  I'll  think,'  said  Meta,  sighing.  •  If  only  I  felt  myself  at  work 
not  to  please  myself,  but  to  be  of  use.  Ha!  '  she  cried,  springing 
up,  '  I  do  believe  I  see  Dr.  May  couiing ! ' 

*  Let  us  run  and  meet  him,'  said  Ethel. 

They  did  so,  and  he  called  out  his  wishes  of  many  happy  returns 
of  blithe  days  to  the  little  birthday  queen,  then  added,  '  You  both 
look  grave,  tliough — liave  tliey  deserted  you?' 

'  No,  papa,  we  have  been  having  a  talk,'  said  Ethel.  '  3Iay  I 
tell  liim,  3Ieta  ?     I  want  to  know  what  he  says.' 

Meta  had  not  bargained  for  this,  but  she  was  very  much  in 
earnest,  and  there  was  nothing  formidable  in  Dr.  May,  so  she  assented. 

'  Meta  is  longing  to  be  at  work — she  thinks  she  is  of  no  use,' 
said  Ethel — •'  she  says  she  never  does  anything  but  please  herself.' 

'  Pleasing  oneself  is  not  the  same  as  trying  to  please  oneself,' 
said  Dr.  May,  kindly. 

'  And  she  thinks  it  cannot  be  safe  or  right,'  added  Ethel,  '  to 
live  that  happy  bright  life,  as  if  people  without  care  or  trouble  could 
not  be  living  as  Christians  are  meant  to  live.     Is  that  it,  Meta?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  think  it  is,'  said  Meta.  '  I  seem  to  be  only  put  here  to 
be  made  much  of! ' 

'  What  did  David  say,  Meta  ? '  returned  Dr.  May. 

'  My  Sheplicrd  is  the  living  Lord, 
Nothing  therefore  I  need : 
In  pastures  fair,  near  pleasant  streams, 
lie  setteth  me  to  Iced.' 

'  Then  you  think,'  said  Meta,  much  touched,  '  that  I  ought  to 
look  on  this  as  "  the  pastures  fair,"  and  be  thankful.  I  hope  I  was 
not  unthankful.' 

'  0,  no,'  said  Ethel.  '  It  was  the  wish  to  bear  hardness,  and  be 
u  good  soldier,  was  it  not  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  my  dear,'  he  said,  '  the  rugged  path  and  dark  valley  will 
come  in  His  own  lit  time.  Depend  upon  it,  the  good  Shepherd  i.s 
giving  you  wLit  is  best  for  you  iu  the  green  meadow,  and  if  you  lay 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN-.  267 

hold  on  His  rod  and  staff  in  your  sunny  days. — '  He  stopiDed  shorty 
and  turned  to  his  daughter. 

'  Ethel,  they  sang  that  Psalm  the  first  Sunday  I  brought  your 
mamma  home  ?  ' 

Meta  was  much  affected,  and  began  to  put  together  what  the 
father  and  daughter  had  said.  Perhaps  the  little  modes  of  secret 
discipline,  of  which  Ethel  had  spoken,  might  be  the  true  means  of 
clasping  the  staff — perhaps  she  had  been  impatient,  and  wanting  in 
humility  in  craving  for  the  strife,  when  her  armour  was  scarce  put 
on. 

Dr.  May  spoke  once  again.  '  Don't  let  anyone  long  for  external 
trial.  The  offering  of  a  free  heart  is  the  thing.  To  offer  praise  is 
the  great  object  of  all  creatures  in  heaven  and  earth.  If  the 
happier  we  are,  the  more  we  praise,  then  all  is  well.' 

But  the  serious  discussion  was  suddenly  broken  off. 

Others  had  seen  Dr.  May's  approach,  and  Harry  and  Mary 
rushed  down  in  dismay  at  their  story  having,  as  they  thought,  been 
forestalled.  However,  they  had  it  all  to  themselves,  and  the  Doctor 
took  up  the  subject  as  keenly  as  could  have  been  hoped,  but  the 
poor  boy  being  still  fast  asleep,  after,  probably,  much  fatigue,  he 
would  not  then  waken  him  to  examine  him,  b\it  came  and  sat  down 
in  the  semicircle,  formed  by  a  terraced  bank  of  soft  turf,  where 
Mrs.  Larpent,  Mrs.  Wilmot,  Richard,  and  Flora,  had  for  some  time 
taken  up  their  abode.  Meta  brought  him  the  choice  little  basket 
of  fruit  which  she  had  saved  for  him,  and  all  delighted  in  having 
him  there,  evidently  enjoying  the  rest  and  sport  very  much,  as  he 
reposed  on  the  fragrant  slope,  eating  grapes,  and  making  inquiries  as 
to  the  antiquities  lately  discovered. 

Norman  gave  an  exceedingly  droll  account  of  the  great  Homan 
Emperor,  Tiberius  V.  V.,  and  Meta,  correcting  it,  there  was  a 
regular  gay  skirmish  of  words,  which  entertained  everyone  ex- 
tremely— above  all,  Meta's  indignation  when  the  charge  was  brought 
home  to  her  of  having  declared  the  '  old  Duke  '  exactly  like  in  turns 
to  Domitian  and  Tiberius — his  features  quite  forbidding. 

This  lasted  till  the  younger  ones,  who  had  been  playing  and 
rioting  till  they  were  tired,  came  up,  and  throwing  themselves  down 
on  the  grass,  Blanche  petitioned  for  something  that  everyone  could 
play  at. 

Meta  proposed  what  she  called  the  story  play.  One  was  to  be 
sent  out  of  earshot,  and  the  rest  to  agree  upon  a  word,  which  was 
then  to  be  guessed  by  each  telling  a  story,  and  introducing  the 
word  into  it,  not  too  prominently.  Meta  volunteered  to  guess,  and 
Harry  whispered  to  Mary  it  would  be  no  go,  but  in  the  meantime, 
the  word  was  found,  and  Blanche  eagerly  recalled  Meta,  and  sat  in 
the  utmost  expectation  and  delight.  Meta  turned  first  to  Kiehard, 
but  he  coloured  distressfully,  and  begged  that  Flora  might  tell  hirf 
iinry  for  him — he  should  only  spoil  the  game.     Flora,  with  a  little 


268  THK    PAISV    CIIAIX. 

tin<Tc  of  graceful  reluctance,  obeyed.  '  No  woman  had  been  to  the 
mimmit  of  Mont  Blanc,'  she  said,  '  till  one  young  girl,  named  Marie, 
resolved  to  have  this  glory.  The  guides  told  her  it  was  madness, 
but  she  persevered.  She  took  the  staff,  and  everything  re(iuisite, 
jind,  following  a  party,  began  the  ascent.  She  bravely  supported 
every  fatigue,  climbed  each  precipice,  was  undaunted  by  the  giddy 
heights  she  attained,  bravely  crossed  the  fields  of  snow,  supported 
the  bitter  cold,  and  finally,  though  suffering  severely,  arrived  at 
the  topmost  peak,  looked  forth  where  woman  had  never  looked  be- 
fore, felt  her  heart  swell  at  the  attainment  of  her  utmost  ambition, 
and  the  name  of  Marie  was  inscribed  as  that  of  the  woman  who 
alone  has  had  the  glory  of  standing  on  the  summit  of  the  Giant  of 
the  Alps.' 

It  was  prettily  cmmciatod,  and  had  a  pleasing  effect.  Meta 
stood  conning  the  words — woman — giant — mountain — glory — and 
begged  for  another  tale. 

'  Mine  shall  not  be  so  stupid  as  Flora's,'  said  Harry.  '  We  have 
an  old  sailor  on  board  the  Alccstis — a  giant  he  might  be  for  his 
voice — but  he  sailed  once  in  the  Glory  of  the  West,  and  there  they 
had  a  monkey  that  was  picked  up  in  Africa,  and  one  day  this  old 
fellow  found  his  queer  messmate,  as  he  called  him,  spying  through 
a  glass,  just  like  the  captain.  The  captain  had  a  glorious  collec- 
tion of  old  coins,  and  the  like,  dug  up  in  some  of  the  old  Greek 
colonics,  and  w^henever  IMaster  Monkey  saw  him  overhauling  them, 
he  would  get  out  a  brass  button,  or  a  card  or  two,  and  turn  'em 
over,  and  chatter  at  them,  and  glory  over  them,  quite  knowing — ' 
said  Ilarvy,  imitating  the  gesture,  'and  I  dare  say  he  saw  V.  V., 
and  Tiberius  Cfcsar,  as  well  as  the  best  of  them.' 

'  Thank  you,  Mr.  Harry,'  said  Meta.  '  I  think  wc  are  at  no  loss 
for  monkeys  here.  ]5ut  I  have  not  the  word  yet.  Who  comes 
next?     Ethel—' 

'  I  shall  blunder,  I  forewarn  you,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  this  is  mine. 
"  There  was  a  young  king,  who  had  an  old  tutor,  whom  he  despised 
because  he  Avas  so  strict,  so  he  got  rid  of  him,  and  took  to  idle 
sport.  One  day,  when  he  was  out  hunting  in  a  forest,  a  white  hind 
came  and  ran  before  him,  till  she  guided  him  to  a  castle,  and  there 
he  found  a  lady,  all  dressed  in  white,  with  a  beamy  crown  on  hor 
head,  aud  so  nobly  beautiful,  that  he  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once, 
and  was  only  sorry  to  see  another  prince  who  was  come  to  her 
palace  too.  Slie  told  them  her  name  was  Gloria,  and  that  she  had 
had  many  suitors,  but  the  choice  did  not  depend  on  herself — she 
could  only  be  won  by  him  who  deserved  her,  and  for  three  years 
they  were  to  be  on  their  probation,  trying  for  her.  So  she  dis- 
missed them,  only  burning  to  gain  hor,  and  telling  then,  to  como 
back  in  three  years'  time.  But  they  had  not  gone  far  before  they 
saw  another  palace,  much  finer,  all  glittering  with  gold  aud  silver, 
and  their  Lady  Gloria  oamo   out   to  meet  them,  not  in  her  white 


TilK    DAISY   CHAIN.  269 

dress,  but  in  one  all  gay  and  briglit  with  fine  colours,  and  her 
crown  they  now  saw  was  of  diamonds.  She  told  them  they  had 
only  seen  her  every-day  dress  and  house,  this  was  her  best ;  and 
she  showed  them  about  the  castle,  and  all  the  pictures  of  her  former 
lovers.  There  was  Alexander,  who  had  been  nearer  retaining  her 
than  anyone,  only  the  fever  prevented  it ;  there  was  Pyrrhus,  always 
seeking  her,  but  slain  by  a  tile — Julius  Ctesar — Tamerlane — all  the 
rest,  and  she  hoped  that  one  of  these  two  would  really  prove  worthy 
and  gain  her,  by  going  in  the  same  path  as  these  great  people. 

'  "  So  our  prince  went  home ;  his  head  full  of  being  like  Alexander 
a'::d  all  the  rest  of  them,  and  he  sent  for  his  good  old  tutor  to 
reckon  up  his  armies,  and  see  whom  he  could  conquer  in  order  to 
win  her.  But  the  old  tutor  told  him  he  was  under  a  mistake;  the 
second  lady  he  had  seen  was  a  treacherous  cousin  of  Gloria,  who 
drew  away  her  suitors  by  her  deceits,  and  whose  real  name  was 
Vana  Gloria.  If  he  wished  to  earn  the  true  Gloria,  he  must  set  to 
work  to  do  his  subjects  good,  and  to  be  virtuous.  And  he  did  ;  he 
taught  them,  and  he  did  justice  to  them,  and  he  bore  it  patiently 
and  kindly  when  they  did  not  understand.  But  by-and-by,  the 
other  king,  who  had  no  good  tutor  to  help  him,  had  got  his  armies 
together,  and  conquered  ever  so  many  people,  and  drawn  off  their 
men  to  be  soldiers ;  and  now  he  attacked  the  good  prince,  and  was 
so  strong,  that  he  gained  the  victory,  though  both  prince  and. 
subjects  fought  manfully  with  heart  and  hand ;  but  the  battle  was 
lost,  and  the  faithful  prince  wounded  and  made  prisoner,  but  bearing 
it  most  patiently,  till  he  was  dragged  behind  the  other's  triumphal 
car  with  all  the  rest,  when  the  three  years  were  up,  to  be  presented 
to  Vana  Gloria.  And  so  he  was  carried  into  the  forest,  bleeding 
and  wounded,  and  his  enemy  drove  the  car  over  his  body,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  Vana  Gloria,  and  found  her  a  vain,  ugly 
wretch,  who  grew  frightful  as  soon  as  he  grasped  her.  But  the 
good  dying  prince  saw  the  beautiful  beamy  face  of  his  lady-love 
bending  over  him.  '  Oh  ! '  he  said,  '  vision  of  my  life,  hast  thou 
come  to  lighten  my  dying  eyes  ?  Never — never,  even  in  my  best 
days,  did  I  deem  that  I  could  be  worthy  of  thee ;  the  more  I  strove, 
the  more  I  knew  that  Gloria  is  for  none  below — for  me  less  than  all.' 

' "  And  then  the  lady  came  and  lifted  him  up,  and  she  said, 
'  Gloria  is  given  to  all  who  do  and  suffer  truly  in  a  good  cause,  for 
faithfulness  is  glory,  and  that  is  thine.'  " ' 

Ethel's  language  had  become  more  flowing  as  she  grew  more 
eager  in  the  tale,  and  they  all  listened  with  suspended  interest. 
Norman  asked  where  she  got  the  story.  '  Out  of  an  old  French 
book,  the  Ilagazin  des  enfans,''  was  the  answer. 

'  But  why  did  you  alter  the  end  ?  '  said  Flora,  '  why  kill  the 
poor  man  ?     He  used  to  be  prosperous,  why  not  ? 

*  Because  I  thought,'  said  Ethel,  *  that  glory  could  not  properly 


270  THE    DAISY    CHAIN. 

belong  to  auyojic  here,  and  if  he  was  once  conscious  of  it,  it  would 
be  all  spoilt.     AVell,  Meta,  do  you  guess  ?' 

'  Oh  !  the  word  !  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  I  think  I  know 
what  it  must  be,  but  I  should  so  like  another  story.  May  I  not 
have  one  V  said  Meta,  coaxin;»ly,     '  Mary,  it  is  you.'    ' 

Mary  fell  back  on  her  p.ona,  and  begged  him  to  take  hers.  Papa 
told  the  best  stories  of  all,  she  said,  and  Meta  looked  beseeching. 

'  My  story  will  not  be  as  long  as  Ethel's,'  said  the  Doctor,  yield- 
ing with  a  half  reluctant  pmile.  '  My  story  is  of  a  humming  bird,  a 
little  creature  that  loved  )ts  master  with  all  its  strength,  and  longed 
to  do  somewhat  for  him.  It  was  not  satisfied  with  its  lot,  because 
it  seemed  merely  a  vain  and  profitless  creature.  The  nightingale 
sang  praise,  and  the  woods  sounded  with  the  glory  of  its  strains ; 
the  fowl  was  valued  for  its  flesh,  the  ostrich  for  its  plume,  but  what 
could  the  little  humming  bird  do,  save  rejoice  .'o  the  glory  of  the 
flood  of  sunbeams,  aod  disport  itself  over  the  flowers,  and  glance  in 
the  sunny  light,  as  its  bright  breastplate  flashed  from  rich  purple  to 
dazzling  flame  colour,  and  its  wings  supported  it,  fluttering  so  fast 
that  the  eye  could  hardly  trace  them,  as  it  darted  its  slender  beak 
into  the  deep-belkd  blossoms.  So  the  little  bird  grieved,  and  could 
not  rest,  for  thinking  that  it  was  useless  in  this  world,  that  it  sought 
merely  its  own  gratification,  and  could  do  nothing  that  could  con- 
duce to  the  glory  of  its  master.  But,  one  night,  a  voice  spoke  to  the 
little  bird,  ''  Why  hast  thou  been  placed  here,"  it  said,  "  but  at  the 
will  of  thy  master  ?  Was  it  not  that  he  might  delight  himself  in 
thy  radiant  plumage,  and  see  thy  joy  in  the  sunshine?  His  gifts 
are  thy  buoyant  wing,  thy  beauteous  colours,  the  love  of  all  around, 
the  sweetness  of  the  honey  drop  in  the  flowers,  the  shade  of  the 
palm  leaf.  Esteem  them,  then,  as  his;  value  thine  own  bliss,  while 
it  lasts,  as  the  token  of  his  care  and  love  ;  and  while  thy  heart  praises 
him  for  them,  and  thy  wings  quiver  and  dance  to  the  tune  of  that 
praise  then,  indeed,  thy  gladness  conduces  to  no  vain-glory  of  thine 
own,  in  beauty,  or  in  graceful  flight,  but  thou  art  a  creature  serving 
as  best  thou  canst  to  his  glory."  ' 

'  I  know  the  word,'  half  whispered  Meta,  not  without  a  trembling 
of  the  lip.  '  I  know  why  you  told  the  story.  Dr.  May,  but  one  is 
not  as  good  as  the  humming  birds.' 

The  elder  ladies  had  begun  to  look  at  watches,  and  talk  of  time 
to  go  home;  and  Jem  Jennings  having  been  seen  rearing  himself 
up  from  behind  the  barrow,  the  Doctor  proceeded  to  investigate  his 
case,  was  perfectly  satisfied  of  the  boy's  truth,  and  as  ready  as  the 
young  ones  to  befriend  him.  A  letter  should  be  written  at  once, 
desiring  his  father  to  look  out  for  him  on  Friday,  when  he  should 
go  by  the  same  train  as  Harry,  who  was  delighted  at  the  notion  of 
protecting  him  so  far,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  drive  him  home 
to  Stoneborough  in  the  gig. 

Consent  was  given;  and  lli:;hard  being  added  to  givfi  weight 


THE   DAISY    CUAIX.  2T1 

5;i.d  discretion,  the  gi_ir  set  out  at  once — the  Doctor,  much  to  Meta's 
delight,  took  his  place  in  the  break.  Blanche,  who,  in  the  morning, 
had  been  inclined  to  despise  it  as  something  akin  to  a  cart,  now 
finding  it  a  popular  conveyance,  was  urgent  to  return  in  it ;  and 
Flora  was  made  over  to  the  carriage,  not  at  all  unwillingly,  for, 
though  it  separated  her  from  Meta,  it  made  a  senior  of  her. 

Norman's  fate  conveyed  him  to  the  exalted  seat  beside  the  driver 
of  the  break,  where  he  could  only  now  and  then  catch  the  sounds  of 
mirth  from  below.  He  had  enjoyed  the  day  exceedingly,  with  that 
sort  of  abandon  more  than  ordinarily  delicious  to  grave  or  saddened 
temperaments,  when  roused  or  drawn  out  for  a  time.  Meta's  win- 
ning grace  and  sweetness  had  a  peculiar  charm  for  him,  and,  per- 
haps, his  having  been  originally  introduced  to  her  as  ill,  and  in  sor- 
row, had  given  her  manner  towards  him  a  sort  of  kindness  which 
was  very  gratifying. 

And  now  he  felt  as  if  he  was  going  back  to  a  very  dusky  dusty 
world;  the  last  and  blithest  day  of  his  holidays  was  past,  and  he 
must  return  to  the  misapprehensions  and  injustice  that  had  blighted 
his  school  career,  be  kept  beneath  boys  with  half  his  ability,  and 
without  generous  feeling,  and  find  all  his  attainments  useless  in  re- 
storing his  position.  Dr.  Hoxton's  dull  scholarship  would  chill  all 
pleasure  in  his  studies — there  would  be  no  companionship  among 
the  boys — even  his  supporters,  Ernescliffe  and  Larkins,  were  gone, 
and  Harry  would  leave  him  still  under  a  cloud. 

Norman  felt  it  more  as  disgrace  than  he  had  done  since  the  first, 
and  wished  be  had  consented  to  quit  the  school  when  it  had  been 
ofi'ered — be  made  a  man,  instead  of  sufi"eriDg  these  doubly  irksome 
provocations,  which  rose  before  him  in  renewed  force.  '  And  what 
would  that  little  humming  bird  think  of  me  if  she  knew  me  dis- 
graced ? '  thought  he.  '  But  it  is  of  no  use  to  think  of  it.  I  must 
go  through  with  it,  and  as  I  always  am  getting  vain-glorious,  I  had 
better  have  no  opportunity.  I  did  not  declare  I  renounced  vain- 
pomp  and  glory  last  week,  to  begin  coveting  them  now  again.' 

So  Norman  repressed  tht  sigh  as  he  looked  at  the  school-build- 
ings, which  never  could  give  him  the  pleasures  of  m3mory  they  af- 
forded to  others. 

The  break  had  set  out  before  the  carriage,  so  that  Meta  had  to 
come  in  and  wait  for  her  governess.  Before  the  vehicle  had  dis- 
gorged half  its  contents,  Harry  had  rushed  out  to  meet  them. 
*  Come  in  !  come  in,  Norman!  Only  hear.  Margaret  shall  tell  you 
herself !     Hurra  1 ' 

Is  Mr,  Erncsclifi"e  come?  crossed  Ethel's  mind,  but  Margaret 
was  alone,  flushed,  and  holding  out  her  hands.  '  Norman  !  where 
is  he  ?  Dear  Norman,  here  is  good  news  !  Papa,  Dr.  Hoxton  has 
been  here,  and  he  knows  all  about  it — and  oh  !  Norman,  he  is  very 
ftorry  for  the  injustice,  and  you  are  Dux  again !  ' 

Norman  really  trembled  so  much  that  h:;  could  neither  speak 


272  TIIK    DAISY    CIIAIX. 

nor  Btaud,  but  sat  down  on  tlie  window-scat,  while  a  confusi)u  of 
tongues  asked  more. 

Jjr.  Iloxtou  and  Mr.  Larkins  had  come  to  call — heard  no  ono 
was  at  home  but  Miss  May — had,  nevertheless,  come  in — and  Mar- 
garet had  heard  that  Mr.  Larkins,  who  had  before  intended  to  re- 
move his  son  from  Stoneborough,  had,  in  the  course  of  the  holidays, 
made  discoveries  from  him,  which  he  could  not  feel  justified  in  con- 
cealing from  Dr.  Iloxton. 

The  whole  of  the  transactions  with  Ballhatclret,  and  Norman's 
part  in  them,  had  been  explained,  as  well  as  the  true  history  of  the 
affray  in  Randall's  alley — how  Norman  had  dispersed  the  boys,  how 
they  had  again  collected,  and,  with  tlio  full  concurrence  of  Harvey 
Anderson,  renewed  the  mischief,  how  tlie  Andersons  had  refused  to 
bear  witness  in  his  favour,  and  how  IJallhatchet's  ill-will  had  kept 
back  the  evidence  which  would  have  cleared  him. 

Little  Larkins  had  told  all,  and  his  father  had  no  scruple  in  re- 
peating it,  and  causing  the  investigation  to  be  set  on  foot.  Nay,  he 
deemed  that  Norman's  influence  had  saved  his  son,  and  came,  as 
anxious  to  thank  him,  as  Dr.  Iloxton,  warm-hearted,  though  inju- 
dicious, was  to  repair  his  injustice.  They  were  much  surprised  and 
struck  by  finding  that  Dr.  3Iay  had  been  aware  of  the  truth  the 
whole  time,  and  had  patiently  put  up  with  the  injustice,  and  the  loss 
of  the  scholarshi}! — a  loss  which  Dr.  Iloxton  would  have  given  any- 
thing to  repair,  so  as  to  have  sent  up  a  scholar  likely  to  do  him  so 
much  credit ;  but  it  was  now  too  late,  and  he  had  only  been  able  to 
tell  Margaret  how  dismayed  he  was  at  finding  out  that  the  boy  to 
whom  all  the  good  order  in  his  school  was  owing,  had  been  so  ill- 
used.  Kind  Dr.  May's  first  feeling  really  seemed  to  be  pity  and  sym- 
pathy for  his  old  friend,  the  head  master,  in  the  shock  of  such  a  dis- 
covery. Harry  was  vociferously  telling  his  version  of  the  story  to 
Ethel  and  Mary.  Tom  stood  transfixed  in  attention.  Meta,  forgot- 
ten and  bewildered,  was  standing  near  Norman,  whose  colour  rapidly 
varied,  and  whose  breath  came  short  and  quick  as  he  listened.  A 
quick  half  interrogation  passed  Meta's  lips,  heard  by  no  one  else. 

'  It  is  only  that  it  is  all  right,'  he  answered,  scarcely  audibly; 
'  they  have  found  out  the  truth.' 

'  What — who — you  ? '  said  Meta,  as  she  heard  words  tliat  im- 
plied the  pasf  suspicion. 

'  Yes,'  said  Norman,  *  I  was  suspected,  but  never  at  home.' 

*  And  is  it  over  now  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  he  whispered  huskily,  'all  is  right,  and  Harry  will 
not  leave  me  in  disgrace.' 

Meta  did  not  speak,  but  she  held  out  her  hand  in  hearty  con- 
gratulation ;  Norman,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  grasped  and 
wrung  it  so  tight,  that  it  was  positive  pain,  as  he  turned  away  his 
head  to  the  window  to  struggle  with  those  irrepressible  tears. 
Meta'b  colour  flushed  into  her  cheek  as  i-he  found  it  still  held,  almost 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  373 

unconsciously  perhaps,  in  bis  agitation,  and  she  heard  Margaret's 
words,  that  both  gentlemen  had  said  Norman  had  acted  noblj,  and 
that  every  revelation  made  in  the  course  of  their  examination,  had 
only  more  fully  established  his  admirable  conduct. 

'  0  Norman !  Norman,  I  am  so  glad ! '  cried  Mary's  voice  in 
the  first  pause,  and,  I^Iargaret  asking  -where  he  -was,  he  suddenly 
turned  round,  recollected  himself,  and  found  it  was  not  the  back  of 
the  chair  that  he  had  been  squeezing,  blushed  intensely,  but  made 
no  attempt  at  apology,  for  indeed  he  could  not  speak — he  only  leant 
down  over  Margaret,  to  receive  her  heartfelt  embrace ;  and,  as  he 
stood  up  again,  his  father  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  '  My  boy, 
I  am  glad — '  but  the  words  were  broken,  and,  as  if  neither  could 
bear  more,  Norman  hastily  left  the  room,  Ethel  rushing  after  him. 

'  Quite  overcome  ! '  said  the  Doctor,  '  and  no«iwonder.  He  felt 
it  cruelly,  though  he  bore  up  gallantly.     Well,  July.' 

'  I'll  go  down  to  school  with  him  to-morrow,  and  see  him  Dux 
again  !  I'll  have  three-times-three  ! '  shouted  Harry,  '  hip  !  bin  I 
hurra ! '  and  Tom  and  Mary  joined  in  chorus. 

'  What  is  all  this  ?  '  exclaimed  Flora,  opening  the  door — is  every- 
one gone  mad  ? ' 

Many  were  the  voices  that  answered. 

'  Well !  I  am  glad,  and  I  hope  the  Andersons  will  make  an 
apolog5^     But  where  is  poor  Meta  ?     Quite  forgotten  ?  ' 

'  Meta  would  not  wonder  if  she  knew  all,'  said  the  Doctor,  turn- 
ing, with  a  sweet  smile  that  had  in  it  something  nevertheless  of  apology 

'  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad — so  glad  ! '  said  Meta,  her  eyes  full  of  tears 
as  she  came  forward. 

And  there  was  no  helping  it ;  the  first  kiss  between  Margarei 
May,  and  Margaret  Rivers,  was  given  in  that  overflowing  sympathy 
of  congratulation. 

The  Doctor  gave  her  his  arm  to  take  her  to  the  carriage,  and, 
on  the  way,  his  quick  warm  words  filled  up  the  sketch  of  Norman's 
behaviour ;  Meta's  eyes  responded  better  than  her  tongue,  but,  to 
her  good-bye,  she  could  not  help  adding.  '  Now  I  have  seen  true 
glory.' 

His  answer  was  much  such  a  gripe  as  her  poor  little  fingers  had 
already  received,  but  though  they  felt  hot  and  crushed,  all  the  way 
home,  the  sensation  seemed  to  cause  such  throbs  of  joy,  that  she 
t^ould  not  have  been  without  it. 

Vol.  I.— 11* 


^74  THE   DAISY    CHAIN, 


CHAPTER    XX VII 

'  And  full  of  hope,  day  followed  day, 
AVhile  that  stout  ship  nt  anchor  lay 

BesUlo  the  shores  of  Wi?lit 
The  May  had  then  made  all  thinss  gre«n, 
And  lloatincj  there,  in  pomp  serene, 
That  ship  was  coodly  to  be  seen, 
llis  pride  and  his  delight 

Tet  then  when  called  ashore,  he  sought 
The  lender  peace  of  rural  thought, 

In  more  than  happy  mood. 
To  your  abodes,  bright  daisy  flowers, 
He  then  would  steal  at  leisure  hours. 
And  loved  you,  flittering  in  your  bowcr.i, 

A  starry  multitude.' 

W'oP.DSWor.Til. 

Harry's  last  liomo  inorninpr  was  brightened  by  goiug  to  the  school 
to  see  full  justice  done  to  Norman,  and  enjoying  the  scene  for  him 
It  was  indeed  a  painful  ordeal  to  Norman  himself,  who  could,  at  the 
moment,  scarcely  feel  pleasure  in  his  restoration,  excepting  for  the 
sake  of  his  father,  Harry,  and  his  sisters.  To  find  the  head  master 
making  apologies  to  him,  was  positively  painful  and  embarrassing, 
and  his  countenance  would  have  been  fitter  for  a  culprit  receiving  a 
lecture.  It  was  pleasantcr  when  the  two  other  masters  shook  hands 
with  him,  Mr.  Harrison  with  a  free  confession  that  he  had  done  him 
injustice,  and  Mr.  Wilmot  with  a  glad  look  of  congratulation,  that 
convinced  Harry  he  had  never  believed  Norman  to  blame. 

Harry  himself  was  somewhat  of  a  hero  ;  the  masters  all  spoke  to 
him,  bade  him  good  speed,  and  wished  him  a  happy  voyage,  and  all 
the  boys  were  eager  to  admire  his  uniform,  and  wish  themselves 
already  men  and  officers  like  Mr.  IMay.  He  had  his  long-desired 
three  cheers  for  '  May  Senior  !  '  shouted  with  a  thorough  good-will 
by  the  united  lungs  of  the  Whichcote  foundation,  and  a  supplemen- 
tary cheer  arose  for  the  good  ship  Alcestis,  while  liands  were  held 
out  on  every  side ;  and  the  boy  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of  benevolence 
and  good-huraour,  as  actually  to  volunteer  a  friendly  shake  of  the 
hand  to  Edward  Anderson,  whom  he  encountered  skulking  apart. 

'  Never  mind,  Ned,  wo  have  often  licked  each  other  before  now, 
and  don't  let  us  bear  a  grudge  now  I  am  going  away.  We  arc 
Stoneborough  fellows  both,  you  know,  after  all.' 

Edward  did  not  refuse  the  ofi'cred  grasp,  and  though  his  words 
were  only, '  Good-bye,  I  hope  you  will  have  plenty  of  fun  ! '  Harry 
went  away  with  a  lighter  heart. 

The  rest  of  the  day  Harry  adhered  closely  to  his  father,  though 
chiefly  in  silence;  Dr.  IMay  had  intended  much  advice  and  exhor- 
tation fur  his  warm-hearted,  wild-spirited  son,  but  words  would  not 
come,  not  even  when  in  the  still  evening  twilight  thoy  walked  down 
iilonc  together  to  the  cloister,  and  stood  over  tlie  little  stone  marked 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  275 

M.  M.    After  standing  there  for  some  minutes,  Harry  knelt  to  collect 
some  of  the  daisies  iu  the  grass. 

'  Are  those  to  take  -with  you  ?  ' 

'  Margaret  is  going  to  make  a  Cross  of  them  for  my  Prayer- 
book.' 

'  Aye,  they  will  keep  it  in  your  mind — say  it  all  to  you,  Harry. 
She  may  be  nearer  to  you  everywhere,  though  you  are  far  from  us. 
Don't  put  yourself  from  her.' 

That  was  all  Dr.  May  contrived  to  say  to  his  son,  nor  could 
Margaret  do  much  more  than  kiss  him,  while  tears  flowed  one  by 
one  over  her  cheeks,  as  she  tried  to  whisper  that  he  must  remember 
and  guard  himself,  and  that  he  was  sure  of  being  thought  of,  at  least, 
in  every  prayer ;  and  then  she  fastened  into  his  book  the  Cross  formed 
of  flattened  daisies,  gummed  upon  a  framework  of  paper.  He  begged 
her  to  place  it  at  the  Baptismal  Service,  for  he  said,  '  I  like  that 
about  fighting — and  I  always  did  like  the  Church  being  like  a  ship 
— don't  you  ?  I  only  found  that  prayer  out  the  day  poor  little 
Daisy  was  Christened.' 

Margaret  had  indeed  a  thrill  of  melancholy  pleasure  in  this  task, 
when  she  saw  how  it  was  regarded.  Oh !  that  her  boy  might  not 
(ose  these  impressions  amid  the  stormy  waves  he  was  about  to 
encounter. 

That  last  evening  of  home  good  nights  cost  Harry  many  a 
choking  sob  ere  he  could  fall  asleep ;  but  the  morning  of  departure 
had  more  cheerfulness ;  the  pleasure  of  patronizing  Jem  Jennings 
was  as  consoling  to  his  spirits,  as  was  to  3Iary  the  necessity  of 
comforting  Toby. 

Toby's  tastes  were  in  some  respects  vulgar,  as  he  preferred  the 
stable,  and  Will  Adams,  to  all  Mary's  attentions;  but  he  attached 
himself  vehemently  to  Dr.  May,  followed  him  everywhere,  and  went 
into  raptures  at  the  slightest  notice  from  him.  The  Doctor  said  it 
was  all  homage  to  the  master  of  the  house.  Margaret  held  that  the 
dog  was  a  physiognomist. 

The  world  was  somewhat  flat  after  the  loss  of  Harry— that  element 
of  riot  and  fun — Aubrey  was  always  playing  at '  poor  Harry  sailing 
away,'  Mary  looked  staid  and  sober,  and  Norman  was  still  graver, 
and"^more  devoted  to  books,  while  Ethel  gave  herself  up  more  com- 
pletely to  the  thickening  troubles  of  Cocksmoor. 

Jealousies  had  arisen  there,  and  these,  with  some  rebukes  for 
failures  in  sending  children  to  be  taught,  had  led  to  imputations  on 
the  character  of  Mrs.  Green,  in  whose  house  the  school  was  kept. 
Ethel  was  at  first  vehement  in  her  defence;  then  when  stronger 
evidence  was  adduced  of  the  woman's  dishonesty,  she  was  dread- 
fully shocked,  and  wanted  to  give  up  all  connexion  with  her,  and  in 
both  moods  was  equally  displeased  with  Eichard  for  pausing,  and 
not  going  all  lengths  with  her. 

Mr.  Wilraot  was  appealed  to,  and  did  his  best  to  investigate,  but 


276  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

the  only  result  was,  to  discover  that  no  one  interrogated,  had  anj 
notion  of  truth,  except  John  Taylor,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter.  The  mass  of  falsehood,  spite,  violence,  and  dishonesty, 
that  became  evident,  -vvas  perfectly  appalling,  and  not  a  clue  was  to 
be  found  to  tlie  truth — scarcely  a  hope  that  minds  so  lost  to 
honourable  fooling  wore  open  to  receive  good  impressions.  It  was  a 
great  distress  to  Ethel — it  haunted  her  night  and  day — she  lay  awake 
j)ondering  on  the  vain  hopes  for  her  poor  children,  and  slept  to 
dream  of  the  angry  faces  and  rude  accusations.  Margaret  grew 
quite  anxious  about  her,  and  her  elders  were  seriously  considering 
tlie  propriety  of  her  continuing  her  labours  at  Cocksmoor. 

Mr.  Wilniot  would  not  be  at  Stoneborough  after  Christmas.  Hia 
father's  declining  health  made  him  be  required  at  home,  and  since 
Kichard  was  so  often  absent,  it  became  matter  of  doubt  whether  the 
Miss  Mays  ought  to  be  allowed  to  persevere,  unassisted  by  older 
heads,  in  such  a  locality. 

This  doubt  put  Ethel  into  an  agony.  Though  she  had  lately 
been  declaring  that  it  made  her  very  unhappy  to  go — she  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Green,  and  that  she  knew  all  her  efforts  were 
vain  while  the  poor  children  had  such  homes;  she  now  only 
implored  to  be  allowed  to  go  on ;  she  said  that  the  badness  of  the 
people  only  made  it  more  needful  to  do  their  utmost  for  them- 
thcre  was  no  end  to  the  arguments  that  she  poured  forth  upon  her 
over  kind  listener,  Margaret. 

'  Yes,  dear  Ethel,  yes,  but  pray  be  calm ;  I  know  papa  and 
Mr.  "Wilmot  would  not  put  a  stop  to  it,  if  they  could  possibly  help 
it,  but  if  it  is  not  proper — ' 

'  Proper  !  that  is  as  bad  as  Miss  Winter  ! ' 

'  Ethel,  you  and  I  cannot  judge  of  these  things — you  must  leavo 
-icm  to  our  ciders — ' 

'  And  men  always  are  so  fanciful  about  ladies — ' 

'  Indeed,  if  you  speak  in  that  way,  I  shall  think  it  is  really  hurting 
you.' 

*  I  did  not  mean  it,  dear  Margaret,'  said  Ethel,  '  but  if  you  kiiew 
what  I  feel  for  poor  Cocksmoor,  you  would  not  wonder  that  I  cannot 
bear  it' 

'  I  do  not  wonder,  dearest,  but  if  this  trial  is  sent  you,  perhaps  it 
is  to  train  you  for  better  things.' 

'  Perhaps  it  is  for  my  fault,'  said  Ethel.  '  Oh !  oh !  if  it  be  that 
I  am  too  unworthy.  And  it  is  the  only  hope  ;  no  one  will  do  any- 
thing to  teach  these  poor  creatures,  if  I  give  it  up.  "What  shall  I 
do,  Margaret  ? ' 

Margaret  drew  her  down  close  to  her,  and  whispered,  '  Trust 
them,  Ethel  dear.  The  decision  will  be  whatever  is  the  will  of 
God.  If  he  thinks  fit  to  give  you  the  work,  it  will  come;  if  not^ 
lie  will  give  you  some  other,  and  provide  for  them.' 


THE   DAISY   CHAIN.  277 

*  If  I  have  been  too  neglectful  of  home,  too  vain  of  persevering 
when  no  one  but  Richard  would,'  sighed  Ethel. 

'  I  cannot  see  that  you  have,  dearest,'  said  Llargaret,  fondly, '  but 
your  own  heart  must  tell  you  that.  And  now,  only  try  to  be  calm 
and  patient.  Getting  into  these  fits  of  despair  is  the  very  thing  to 
make  people  decide  against  you. ' 

'  I  will !  I  will !  I  will  try  to  be  patient,'  sobbed  Ethel ;  '  I  know 
to  be  wayward  and  set  on  it  would  only  hurt.  I  might  only  do 
more  harm — ^I'li  try.     But  oh  !  my  poor  children.' 

Margaret  gave  a  little  space  for  the  struggle  with  herself,  then 
advised  her  resolutely  to  fix  her  attention  on  something  else.  It 
was  a  Saturday  morning,  and  time  was  niore  free  than  usual,  so 
Margaret  was  able  to  persuade  her  to  continue  a  half-forgotten 
drawing,  while  listening  to  an  interesting  article  in  a  review,  which 
opened  to  her  that  there  were  too  many  Cocksmoors  in  the  world. 

The  dinner  hour  sounded  too  soon,  and,  as  she  iras  crossing  the 
hall,  to  put  away  her  drawing  materials,  the  front  door  gave  the 
click  peculiar  to  Dr.  May's  left-handed  way  of  opening  it.  She 
paused,  and  saw  him  enter,  flushed,  and  with  a  look  that  certified 
her  that  something  had  happened. 

'  Well,  Ethel !  he  is  come.' 

'  Oh  papa  !  Mr.  Ernes — ' 

He  held  up  his  finger,  drew  her  into  the  study,  and  shut  the 
door.  The  expression  of  mystery  and  amusement  gave  way  to 
sadness  and  gravity  as  he  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair,  and  sighed  as 
if  much  fatigued.  She  was  checked  and  alarmed,  but  she  could  not 
help  asking,  '  Is  he  here  ? ' 

'  At  the  Swan.  He  came  last  night,  and  watched  for  me  this 
morning,  as  I  came  out  of  the  hospital.  We  have  been  walking 
over  the  meadows  to  Fordholm.' 

No  wonder  Dr.  May  was  hot  and  tired. 

'  But  is  he  not  coming  ?  '  asked  Ethel. 

'  Yes,  poor  fellow  ;  but  hush,  stop,  say  nothing  to  the  others.  I 
must  not  have  her  agitated  till  she  has  had  her  dinner  in  peace,  and 
the  house  is  quiet.  You  know  she  cannot  run  away  to  her  room  aa 
you  would.'  iflp 

'  Then  he  is  really  come  for  ihat  ? '  cried  Ethel,  breathlessly ;  and, 
perceiving  the  affirmative,  added,  '  but  why  did  he  wait  so  long  ?  ' 

'  He  wished  to  see  his  way  through  his  affairs,  and  also  wanted 
to  hear  of  her  from  Harry.  I  am  afraid  poor  July's  colours  were 
too  bright.' 

'  And  why  did  he  come  to  the  Swan  instead  of  to  us  ?  ' 

'  That  was  his  fine,  noble  feeling.  He  thought  it  right  to  see  m<3 
first,  that  if  I  thought  the  decision  too  trying  for  Margaret,  in  her 
present  state,  or  if  I  disapproved  of  the  long  engagement,  I  mighJ 
hpare  her  all  knowledge  of  hia  coming.' 

'  Oh  papa  !  you  won't ! ' 


278  TIIE   DAISY   CIIADT. 

*  I  don't  know  but  that  I  ought — ^but  yet — the  fact  is,  that  1 
cannot.  With  that  fine  young  fellow  so  generously,  fondly  attached, 
I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  send  him  away  for  four  years  without 
seeing  her,  and  yet,  poor  things,  it  might  be  better  for  them  both. 
0  Ethel,  if  your  mother  were  but  here  ! ' 

He  rested  his  forehead  on  his  hands,  and  Ethel  stood  aghast  at 
his  unexpected  reception  of  the  addresses  for  which  she  had  so  long 
hoped.  She  did  not  A'cnture  to  speak,  and  presently  he  roused 
himself  as  the  dinner-bell  rang.  '  One  comfort  is,'  he  said,  '  that 
Margaret  has  more  composure  than  I.  Do  you  go  to  Cocksmoor 
this  afternoon  ? ' 

"  I  wished  it,' 

'  Take  them  all  with  you.  You  may  tell  them  why  when  you 
are  out.  I  must  have  the  house  quiet.  I  phall  get  Margaret  out 
into  the  shade,  and  prepare  her,  as  best  I  can,  before  he  comes  at 
three  o'clock.' 

It  was  flattering  not  to  be  thus  cleared  out  of  the  way,  especially 
when  full  of  excited  curiosity,  but  any  such  sensation  was  quite 
overborne  by  sympathy  in  his  great  anxiety,  and  Ethel's  only  ques- 
tion was,  '  Had  not  Flora  better  stay,  to  keep  off  company  ?  ' 

'  No, Tio,'  said  Dr.  May,  impatiently, '  the  fewer  the  better: '  and 
hastily  passing  her,  he  dashed  up  to  his  room,  nearly  running  over 
the  nursery  procession,  and,  in  a  very  few  seconds,  was  seated  at 
table,  eating  and  speaking  by  snatches,  and  swallowing  endless 
draughts  of  cold  water. 

'  You  are  going  to  Cocksmoor ! '  said  he,  as  they  were  finishing. 

'  It  is  the  right  day,'  said  Richard.     '  Are  you  coming,  Flora? ' 

'  Not  to-day,  I  have  to  call  on  Mrs.  Hoxton.' 

'  Never  mind  Mrs.  Hoxton,'  said  the  Doctor — '  you  had  bettci 
go  to-day,  a  fine  cool  day  for  a  walk.' 

He  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  found  it  so. 

*  0  yes.  Flora,  you  must  come,'  said  Ethel,  'we  want  you.' 
'  I  have  engagements  at  home,'  replied  Flora. 

'  And  it  really  is  a  trying  walk,'  said  Miss  Winter, 

'  You  must,'  reiterated  Ethel.  '  Come  to  our  room  and  I  will 
veil  ]An-l>y-' 

'  lao  not  mean  to  go  to  Cocksmoor  till  something  positive  is 
settled.     I  cannot  have  anything  to  do  with  that  woman.' 

'  If  you  would  only  come  up-stairs,'  implored  Ethel,  at  the  door. 
'  I  have  soinething  to  tell  you  alone.' 

'  I  shall  come  up  in  due  time.  I  thought  you  had  outgrown 
elosetings,  and  foolisli  secrets,'  said  Flora. 

Her  movements  were  quickened  however  by  her  father,  who, 
finding  her  with  Margaret  in  the  drawing-room,  ordered  her  up. 
stairs  in  a  peremptory  manner,  which  she  resented,  as  treating  hei 
like  a  child,  and  therefore  proceeded  in  no  amiable  mood  to  tho 
room,  where  Ethel  awaitei  her  in  wild  tumultuous  impatience. 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  27S 

'  Welly  Ethel,  what  is  this  grand  secret  ?  ' 
*  0  Flora  !  Mr.  ErnesclifFe  is  at  the  Swan  !     He  has  been  speak 
iiig  to  papa  about  Margaret.' 

'  Proposing  for  her,  do  you  mean  ?  '  said  Flora. 
'  Yes,  he  is  coming  to  see  her  this  afternoon,  and  that  ia  th<« 
reason  that  papa  wants  us  to  be  all  out  of  the  way.' 
'  Did  papa  tell  you  this  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Ethel,  beginning  to  perceive  the  secret  of  her  dis- 
pleasure, '  but  only  because  I  was  the  first  person  he  met ;  and  Nor- 
man guessed  it  long  ago.  Do  put  on  your  things !  I'll  tell  you 
all  I  know  when  we  are  out.  Papa  is  so  anxious  to  have  the  coast 
clear.' 

'  I  understand,'  said  Flora,  '  but  I  shall  not  g-j  with  you.  Do 
not  be  afraid  of  my  interfering  with  anyone.  I  shall  sit  here.' 
'  But  papa  said  you  were  to  go.' 
If  he  had  done  me  the  favour  of  speaking  to  me  hiraself,'  said 
Flora,  '  I  should  have  shown  him  that  it  is  not  right  that  Margaret 
should  be  left  without  anyone  at  hand  in  case  she  should  be  over- 
come. He  is  of  no  use  in  such  cases,  only  makes  things  worse.  I 
should  not  feel  justified  in  leaving  Margaret  with  no  one  else  ;  but 
he  is  one  of  those  hand-over-head  moods,  when  it  is  not  of  the  least 
use  to  say  a  word  to  him.' 

'  Flora  !  how  can  you  ?  when  he  expressly  ordered  you.' 
'  All  he  meant  was,  do  not  be  in  the  way,  and  I  shall  not  show 
myself  unless  I  am  needed,  when  he  would  be  glad  enough  of  me. 
I  am  not  bound  to  obey  the  very  letter,  like  Blanche  or  Mary.' 

Ethel  looked  horrified  by  the  assertion  of  independence,  but 
Kichard  called  her  from  below,  and  with  one  more  fruitless  entreaty 
she  ran  down  stairs. 

Richard  had  been  hearing  all  from  his  father,  and  it  was  com- 
fortable to  talk  the  matter  over  with  him,  and  hear  explained  the 
anxiety  whioh  frightened  her,  while  she  scarcely  comprehended  it; 
how  Dr.  May  could  not  feel  certain  whether  it  was  right  or  expe- 
dient to  promote  an  engagement  which  must  depend  on  health  so 
uncertain  as  poor  Margaret's,  and  how  he  dreaded  the  effecton  the 
happiness  of  both.  ^^ 

Ethel's  romance  seemed  to  be  turning  to  melancholy,  and  she 
walked  on  gravely  and  thoughtfully,  though  repeating  that  there 
wuld  be  no  doubt  of  Margaret's  perfect  recovery  by  the  time  of  the 
ceturn  from  the  voyage. 

Her  lessons  were  somewhat  nervous  and  flurried,  and  even  the 
sight  of  two  very  nice  neat  new  scholars,  of  very  different  appearance 
from  the  rest,  and  of  much  superior  attainments,  only  half  interested 
her.  Mary  was  enchanted  at  them  as  a  pair  of  prodigies,  actually 
able  to  read!  and  had  made  out  their  names,  and  their  former 
abodes,  and  how  they  had  been  used  to  go  to  school,  and  had  just 
come  to  live  in  the  cottage  deserted  by  the  lamented  Una. 


280  THE  DAISY  jiiAm. 

Ethel  thought  it  quite  provoking  in  her  brother  to  accede  tc 
Mary's  entreaties  that  they  should  go  and  call  on  this  promising 
importation.  Even  the  children's  information  that  they  were  taught 
now  by  '  Sister  Cherry'  failed  to  attract  her;  but  llichard  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  decided  that  it  was  too  soon  to  go  home,  and  she 
had  to  submit  to  her  fate. 

Very  diiferent  was  the  aspect  of  the  house  from  the  wild  Irish 
cabin  appearance  that  it  had  had  in  the  M'Carthy  days.  It  was  the 
remains  of  an  old  farm-house  that  had  seen  better  days,  somewhat 
larger  than  the  general  run  of  the  Cocksmoor  dwellings.  Respect- 
able furniture  had  taken  up  its  abode  against  the  walls,  the  kitchen 
was  well  arranged,  and,  in  spite  of  the  wretched  flooring  and  broken 
windows,  had  an  air  of  comfort.  A  very  tidy  woman  was  bustling 
about,  still  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  relics  of  her  former  tenants,  who 
might,  .she  much  feared,  have  left  a  legacy  of  typhus  fever.  The 
more  interesting  person  was,  however,  a  young  woman  of  three  or 
four-and-twenty,  pale,  and  very  lame,  and  with  the  air  of  a  respect- 
able servant,  her  manners  particularly  pleasing.  It  appeared  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  drst  wife,  and,  after  the  period  of  school- 
ing, had  been  at  service,  but  had  been  lamed  by  a  fall  down-stairs, 
and  had  been  obliged  to  come  home,  just  as  scarcity  of  work  had 
caused  her  father  to  leave  his  native  parish,  and  seek  employment  at 
other  quarries.  She  had  hoped  to  obtain  plain  work,  but  all  the 
family  were  dismayed  and  disappointed  at  the  wild  spot  to  which 
they  had  come,  and  anxiously  availed  themselves  of  this  introduc- 
tion to  beg  that  the  elder  boy  and  girl  might  bo  admitted  into  the 
town  school,  distant  as  it  was.  At  another  time,  the  thought  of 
Charity  Elwood  would  have  engrossed  Ethel  s  whole  mind,  now  she 
could  hardly  attend,  and  kept  looking:  eagerly  at  Richard  as  he  talked 
endlessly  with  the  good  mother.  AVhen,  at  last,  they  did  set  off,  he 
would  not  let  her  gallop  home  like  a  steam-engine,  but  made  her 
take  his  arm,  when  he  found  that  she  could  not  otherwise  moderate 
her  steps.  At  the  long  hill,  a  figure  appeared,  and,  as  soon  as 
Richard  was  certified  of  its  identity,  he  let  her  fly,  like  a  bolt  from 
a  crosSjbow,  and  she  stood  by  Dr.  May's  side. 

A^kic  ashamed,  she  blushed  instead  of  speaking  and  waited 
for  Richard  to  come  up  and  begin.  Neither  did  he  say  anything, 
and  they  paused  till,  the  silence  disturbing  her,  she  ventured  a 
'  Well,  papa  ! ' 

'  Well,  poor  things.  She  was  quite  overcome  when  first  I  told 
her — said  it  would  be  hard  on  him,  and  begged  me  to  tell  him  that 
he  would  be  much  happier  if  he  thought  no  more  of  her.' 

'  Did  ^Margaret  ?  '  cried  Ethel.     '  Oh  !  could  she  mean  it  ?' 

'  She  thought  she  meant  it,  poor  dear,  and  repeated  such  things 
again  and  again  ;  but  when  I  asked  whether  I  should  send  him  away 
without  seeing  her,  she  cried  more  than  ever  and  said,  '  You  are 
tempting  me  !     It  would  be  selfishness.' 


■rilE    DAISY    CIIAIN.  233 

'  0  dear  !  she  surely  has  seen  him  ! ' 

'  I  told  her  that  I  would  be  the  last  person  to  wish  to  tempt  her 
to  selfishness,  but  that  I  did  not  think  that  either  could  be  easy  in 
settling  such  a  matter  through  a  third  person.' 

'  It  would  have  been  very  unkind,  said  Ethel ;  '  I  wonder  sha 
did  not  think  so.' 

'  She  did  at  last.  I  saw  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  and  she  said, 
poor  darling,  that  when  he  had  seen  her,  he  would  know  the  impog- 
sibility;  but  she  was  so  agitated,  that  I  did  not  know  how  it 
could  be.' 

'  Has  she  ? ' 

'  Aye,  I  told  him  not  to  stay  too  long,  and  left  him  under  the 
tulip-tree  with  her.  I  found  her  much  more  composed — he  was  so 
gentle  and  considerate.  Ah  !  he  is  the  very  man  !  Besides,  he  has 
convinced  her  now  that  afi'ection  brings  him,  not  mere  generosity, 
as  she  fancied.' 

'  0,  then,  it  is  settled  ! '  cried  Ethel,  joyously. 

'  I  wish  it  were  !  She  has  owned  that  if — if  she  wero  in  health 
— but  that  is  all,  and  he  is  transported  with  having  gained  so  much  ! 
Poor  fellow.  So  far,  I  trust,  it  is  better  for  them  to  know  each 
other's  minds,  but  how  it  is  to  be — ' 

'  But,  papa,  you  know  Sir  Matthew  Fleet  said  sho  was  sure  to 
get  well !  and  in  three  years'  time' — 

'  Yes !  yes,  that  is  the  best  chance.  But  it  is  a  dreary  look 
out  for  two  young  things.  That  is  in  wiser  hands,  however  !  If  only 
I  saw  what  was  right  to  do  !  My  miserable  carelessness  has  undone 
you  all ! '  he  concluded,  almost  inaudibly. 

It  was,  indeed,  to  him  a  time  of  great  distress  and  perplexity, 
wishing  to  act  the  part  of  father  and  mother  both  towards  his 
daughter,  acutely  feeling  his  want  of  calm  decision,  and  torn  to 
pieces  at  once  by  sympathy  with  the  lovers,  and  by  delicacy  that 
held  him  back  from  seeming  to  bind  the  young  man  to  an  uncer- 
tain engagement, — above  all,  tortured  by  self-reproach  for  the  com- 
mencement of  the  atachment,  and  for  the  misfortune  that  "ciad  ren- 
dered its  prosperity  doubtful. 

Ethel  could  find  no  words  of  comfort  in  the  bewildered  glimpse 
dt  his  sorrow  and  agitation.  Bichard  spoke  with  calmness  and  good 
sense,  and  his  replies,  though  brief  and  common-place,  were  not 
without  effect  in  lessening  the  excitement  and  despondency  which 
the  poor  Doctor's  present  mood  had  been  aggravating. 

At  the  door,  Dr.  May  asked  for  Flora,  and  Ethel  explained.  If 
Flora  had  obtruded  herself,  he  would  have  been  irritated,  but,  as  it 
was,  he  had  no  time  to  observe  the  disobedience,  and  saying  that  he 
hoped  she  was  with  Margaret,  sent  Ethel  into  the  drawing-room. 

Flora  was  not  there,  only  Margaret  lay  on  her  sofa,  and  Ethel 
fiesitated,  shy,  curious,  and  alarmed;  but,  as  she  approached,  she 
vas  relieved  to  see  the  blue  eyes  more  serene  even  than  usual,  while 


282  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

a  glow  of  colour  i^prcad  over  her  face,  making  her  like  the  blooming 
Margaret  of  old  times  ;  her  expression  was  full  of  peace,  but  becam< 
somewhat  amused  at  Ethel's  timid,  awkward  pauses,  as  she  held  out 
her  hands,  and  said,  *  Come,  dear  Ethel.' 

'  0,  3Iargaret,  Margaret  !  ' 

And  Ethel  was  drawn  into  her  sister's  bosom.  Presently,  she 
drew  back,  gazed  at  her  sister  inquiringly,  and  said  in  an  odd, 
doubtful  voice,  '  Then  you  arc  glad  'i ' 

Margaret  nearly  laughed  at  the  strange  manner,  but  spoke  with 
a  sorrowful  tone,  '  Glad  in  one  wa}-,  dearest,  almost  too  glad,  and 
grateful.' 

'  0,  I  am  so  glad  !  '  again  said  Ethel ;  '  I  thought  it  was  mak- 
ing everybody  unhappy.' 

'  I  don't  believe  I  could  be  that,  now  he  has  come,  now  I  know; ' 
and,her  voice  trembled.  '  There  must  be  doubt  and  uncertainty,* 
she  added,  '  but  I  cannot  dwell  on  them  just  yet.  They  will  settle 
what  is  right,  I  know,  and,  happen  what  may,  I  have  alwaj's  ihi$ 
to  remember.' 

'  Oh  !  that  is  right !  Papa  will  be  so  relieved  !  He  was  afraid 
it  had  only  been  distress.' 

'  Poor  papa!  Yes,  I  did  not  comniaud  myself  at  first;  I  was 
not  sure  whether  it  was  right  to  see  him  at  all.' 

'  Oh  !  IMargarct,  that  was  too  bad  ! ' 

'  It  did  not  seem  right  to  encourage  any  such — such,'  the  word 
was  lost,  '  to  such  a  poor  helpless  thing  as  I  am.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  and  I  am  afraid  I  behaved  like  a  silly  child,  and  did 
not  think  of  dear  papa's  feelings.  But  I  will  try  to  be  good,  and 
leave  it  all  to  them.' 

*  And  you  are  going  to  be  happy  ?  '  said  Ethel,  wistfull}'. 

'  For  the  present,  at  least.  I  cannot  help  it,'  said  Margaret. 
'  Oh  !  he  is  so  kind,  and  so  unselfish,  and  so  beautifully  gentle — 
and  to  think  of  hi§  still  caring — but  there,  dear  Ethel,  I  am  not 
going  to  cry — do  call  papa,  or  he  will  think  me  foolish  again.  I 
want  him  to  be  quite  at  ease  about  me  before  he  comes.' 

'  Then  he  is  coming  ? ' 

'  Yes,  at  tea-time — so  run,  dear  Ethel,  and  tell  Jane  to  get  hif 
room  ready.' 

This  message  quickened  Ethel,  and  after  giving  it,  and  report- 
ing consolingly  to  her  father,  she  went  up  to  Flora,  who  had  been  n 
voluntary  prisoner  up-stairs  all  this  time,  and  was  not  peculiarly 
gratified  at  such  tidings  coming  only  through  the  medium  of  Ethel. 
She  had  before  been  sensible  that,  superior  in  discretion  and 
eflectiveness  as  she  was  acknowledged  to  be,  she  did  not  share  so 
much  of  the  confidence  and  sympathy  as  some  of  the  others,  and  she 
Celt  mortified  and  injured,  though  in  this  case  it  was  entirely  her 
i;wn  fault.     The  scn.sc  of  alienation  grew  upon  her. 

She  dressed  quickly,  and   hurried  down,  that  she  might  seo 


THE    DAISY    CHAIN.  283 

Margaret  alone,  but  the  room  was  already  prepared  for  tea,  and  the 
children  were  fast  assembling.  Ethel  came  down  a  few  minutes 
after,  and  found  Blanche  claiming  Alan  Ernescliffe  as  her  lawful 
property,  dancing  round  him,  chattering,  and  looking  injured  if  he 
addressed  a  word  to  anyone  else. 

'  How  did  lovers  look  ?  '  was  a  speculation  which  had,  more  than 
oncCj  occupied  Ethel,  and  when  she  had  satisfied  herself  that  her 
father  was  at  ease,  she  began  to  study  it,  as  soon  as  a  shamefaced 
consciousness  would  allow  her,  after  Alan's  warm  shake  of  the 
hand. 

Margaret  looked  much  as  usual,  only  with  more  glow  and  bright- 
ness— Mr.  Ernescliife,  not  far  otherwise ;  he  was  as  pale  and  slight 
as  on  his  last  visit,  with  the  same  soft  blue  eyes,  capable,  however, 
of  a  peculiar  keen,  steady  glance  when  he  was  listening,  and  which 
now  seemed  to  be  attending  to  Margaret's  every  word  or  look, 
through  all  the  delighted  uproar  which  Aubrey,  Blanche,  and  Mary 
kept  up  round  him,  or  while  taking  his  share  in  the  general  con- 
versation, telling  of  Harry's  popularity  and  good  conduct  on  board 
the  Alcestis,  or  listening  to  the  history  of  Norman's  school  ad- 
ventures, which  he  had  heard,  in  part,  from  Harry,  and  how  young 
Jennings  was  entered  in  the  flag-ship,  as  a  boy,  though  not  yet  to 
sail  with  his  father. 

After  the  storm  of  the  day,  the  sky  seemed  quite  clear,  and 
Ethel  could  not  see  that  being  lovers  made  much  difference — to  be 
sure  papa  displeased  Blanche,  by  calling  her  away  to  his  side,  when 
she  would  squeeze  her  chair  in  between  Alan's  and  the  sofa ;  and 
Alan  took  all  the  waiting  on  Margaret  exclusively  to  himself. 
Otherwise,  there  was  nothing  remarkable,  and  he  was  very  much 
the  same  Mr.  Ernesclifie  whom  they  had  received  a  year  ago. 

In  truth,  the  next  ten  days  were  very  happy.  The  future  was 
left  to  rest,  and  Alan  spent  his  mornings  in  the  drawing-room  alone 
with  Margaret,  and  looked  ever  more  brightly  placid,  while,  with 
the  rest,  he  was  more  than  the  former  kind  play-fellow,  for  he  now 
took  his  place  as  the  affectionate  elder  brother,  entering  warmly 
into  all  their  schemes  and  pleasures,  and  winning  for  himself  a  full 
measure  of  affection  from  all ;  even  his  little  god-daughter  began  to 
know  him,  and  smile  at  his  presence.  Margaret  and  Ethel  espe- 
cially delighted  in  the  look  of  enjoyment  with  which  their  father 
gat  down  to  enter  on  the  evening's  conversation  after  the  day's 
work;  and  Flora  was  well-pleased  that  Mrs.  Hoxton  should  find 
Alan  in  the  drawing-room,  and  ask  afterwards  about  his  estate ; 
and  that  Meta  Bivers,  after  being  certified  that  this  was  iheir  Mr. 
Ernescliffe,  pronounced  that  her  papa  thought  him  particularly 
pleasing  and  gentlemanlike.  There  was  something  dignified  iu 
having  a  sister  on  the  point  of  being  engaged. 


284:  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 


CHAPTER     XXVIII. 

'  Sail  fortli  into  tlic  sea,  tlion  ship, 

Tliroiiph  breeze  and  cloud,  rialit  onward  steer ; 
Tlic  moistened  eye,  tlie  tremblins  lip. 
Arc  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear! ' 

Longfellow. 

Tranquillity  only  lasted  until  Mr.  Erncscliffe  found  it  iiccessarj 
to  understand  on  what  terms  ho  -vvas  to  stand.  Everyone  was 
lender  of  conscience,  anxious  to  do  right,  and  desirous  to  yield  to 
the  opinion  that  nobody  could,  or  would  give.  "While  Alan  begged 
for  a  positive  engagement,  Margaret  scrupled  to  exchange  promises 
that  she  might  never  be  able  to  fulfil,  and  both  agreed  to  leave  all 
to  her  father,  who,  in  every  way,  ought  to  have  the  best  ability  to 
judge  whether  there  was  unreasonable  presumption  in  such  a 
betrothal ;  but  this  very  ability  only  served  to  perplex  the  poor 
Doctor  more  and  more.  It  is  far  easier  for  a  man  to  decide  when 
he  sees  only  one  bearing  of  a  case,  than  when,  like  Dr.  May,  he  not 
only  sees  them,  but  is  rent  by  them  in  his  inmost  heart.  Sympa- 
thizing in  turn  with  each  lover,  bitterly  accusing  his  own  careless- 
ness as  the  cause  of  all  their  troubles,  his  doubts  contending  with 
his  hopes,  his  conviction  clashing  with  Sir  Matthew  Fleet's  opinion, 
his  conscientious  sincerity  and  delicacy  conflicting  with  his  affection 
and  eagerness,  he  was  perfectly  incapable  of  coming  to  a  decision, 
and  suffered  so  cruelly,  that  Margaret  was  doubly  distressed  for  his 
sake,  and  Alan  felt  himself  guilty  of  having  rendered  everybody 
miserable. 

Dr.  May  could  not  conceal  his  trouble,  and  rendered  Ethel 
almost  as  unliappy  as  himself,  after  each  conversation  with  her, 
though  her  hopes  usually  sprang  up  again,  and  she  had  a  happy 
conviction  that  this  was  only  the  second  volume  of  the  novel 
Flora  was  not  often  called  into  his  councils  ;  confidence  never  came 
spontaneously  from  Dr.  May  to  her ;  there  was  something  that  did 
not  draw  it  forth  towards  her,  whether  it  resided  in  that  half-sar- 
castic corner  of  her  steady  blue  eye,  or  in  the  grave  common  sense 
of  her  gentle  voice.  Her  view  of  the  case  was  known  to  be  that 
there  was  no  need  for  so  much  perplexity — why  should  not  Alan  be 
the  best  judge  of  his  own  happiness  V  If  Margaret  were  to  be 
delicate  for  life,  it  would  be  better  to  have  such  a  home  to  look 
to ;  and  she  soothed  and  comforted  Margaret,  and  talked  in  a  strain 
of  unmixed  hope  and  anticipation  that  often  drew  a  smile  from  her 
sister,  though  she  feared  to  trust  to  it. 

Flora's  tact  and  consideration  in  keeping  the  children  away, 
when  the  lovers  could  best  be  alone,  and  letting  them  in,  when  the 
discussion  was  becoming  useless  and  harassing,  her  cheerful  smiles, 
her  evening  music  that  covered  all  sounds,  her  removal  of  all  extra 


THE   DAISY    CHAI^'  285 

aunojances,  were  invaluable,  and  Margaret  appreciated  them  as 
indeed,  Flora  took  care  that  she  should. 

Margaret  begged  to  know  her  eldest  brother's  judgment,  but  had 
great  difficulty  in  dragging  it  out.  Diffidently  as  it  was  proposed, 
it  was  clear  and  decided.  He  thought  that  his  father  had  better 
send  Sir  Matthew  Fleet  a  statement  of  Margaret's  present  condition, 
and  abide  by  his  answer  as  to  whether  her  progress  warranted  the 
hope  of  her  restoration. 

Never  was  Richard  more  surprised  than  by  the  gratitude  with 
which  his  suggestion  was  hailed,  simple  as  it  was,  so  that  it  seemed 
obvious  that  others  should  have  already  thought  of  it.  After  the 
tossings  of  uncertainty,  it  was  a  positive  relief  to  refer  the  question 
to  some  external  voice,  and  only  Ethel  and  Norman  expressed 
strong  dislike  to  Sir  Matthew  becoming  the  arbiter  of  Margaret's 
fate,  and  were  scarcely  pacified  by  Dr.  May's  assurance,  that  he  had 
not  revealed  the  occasion  of  his  inquiry.  The  letter  was  sent,  and 
repose  returned,  but  hearts  beat  high  on  the  morning  when  the 
answer  was  excepted. 

Dr.  May  watched  the  moment  when  his  daughter  was  alone, 
carried  the  letter  to  her,  and  kissing  her,  said,  with  an  oppressed 
voice,  'I  give  you  joy,  ray  dear.' 

She  read  with  suspended  breath  and  palpitating  heart.  Sir 
Matthew  thought  her  improvement  sure,  though  slow,  and  had 
barely  a  doubt,  that,  in  a  year,  she  would  have  regained  her  full 
strength  and  activity. 

'  You  will  show  it  to  Alan,'  said  Dr.  May,  as  Margaret  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face  inquiringly. 

'  Will  not  you  ?  '  she  said. 

'  I  cannot,'  he  answered.  '  I  wish  I  was  more  helpful  to  you, 
my  child,'  he  added,  wistfully,  '  but  you  will  rest  on  him,  and  be 
happy  together  while  he  stays,  will  you  not  ?  ' 

'Indeed  I  will,  dear  papa.' 

Mr.  Ernescliife  was  with  her  as  the  Doctor  quitted  her.  She 
held  the  letter  to  him,  '  But,'  she  said,  slowly,  '  I  see  that  papa  does 
not  believe  it.' 

'  You  promised  to  abide  by  it ! '  he  exclaimed,  between  entreaty 
and  authority. 

'  I  do ;  if  you  choose  so  to  risk  your  hopes.' 

'  But,'  cried  he,  as  he  glanced  hastily  over  the  letter, '  there  can 
be  no  doubt !  These  words  are  as  certain  as  language  can  make 
them.     Why  will  you  not  trust  them  ?  ' 

'  I  see  that  papa  does  not.' 

'  Despondency  and  self-reproach  make  him  morbidly  anxious. 
Believe  so,  my  Margaret  !     You  know  he  is  no  surgeon  ! ' 

'  His  education  included  that  line,'  said  Margaret.  '  I  believe 
he  has  all  but  the  manual  dexterity.     However,  I  would  fain  have 


2SG  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

fiiith  in  Sir  Matthew,'  she  added,  smiling,  '  and  perhaps  1  am  on]y 
swayed  by  the  habit  of  thinking  that  papa  must  know  best.' 

'  He  does  in  indifferent  cases;  but  it  is  an  old  axiom,  that  a 
medical  man  should  not  prescribe  for  his  own  family ;  above  all,  in 
such  a  case,  where  it  is  but  reasonable  to  believe  an  unprejudiced 
stranger,  who  alone  is  cool  enough  to  be  relied  on.  I  absolutely 
depend  on  him  ! ' 

^Margaret  absolutely  depended  on  the   bright   cheerful  look  of 
conviction.     '  Yes,  she  said,  '  we  will  try  to  make  papa  take  pleasure 
in  the  prospect.     Perhaps  I  could  do  more  if  I  made  the  attempt.' 
'  I  <im  sure  you  could,  if  you  would  let  me  give  you  more  sup- 
port.    If  I  were  but  going  to  remain  with  you  !  ' 

'  Don't  let  us  be  discontented,'  said  Margaret,  smiling, '  whtu  so 
much  more  has  been  granted  than  I  dare  to  hope.  Be  it  as  it  may, 
let  us  ba  happy  in  what  we  have.' 

'  It  makes  ^'ou  happy  V  '  said  he,  archly  reading  her  face  to  draw 
out  the  avowal,  but  he  only  made  her  hide  it,  with  a  mute  caress  oi 
the  hand  that  held  hers.  She  was  glad  enough  to  rest  in  the 
present,  now  that  everything  concurred  to  satisfy  her  conscience  in 
so  doing,  and  come  what  might,  the  days  now  spent  together  would 
be  a  possession  of  joy  for  ever. 

Captain  Gordon  contrived  to  afford  his  lieutenant  anothci  fort- 
night's leave,  perhaps  because  he  was  in  dread  of  losing  him 
altogether,  for  Alan  had  some  doubts,  and  many  longings  to  remain. 
Had  it  been  possible  to  marry  at  once,  he  woiijd  have  quitted  the 
navy  immediately  ;  and  he  would  have  given  worlds  to  linger  beside 
3Iargaret's  couch,  and  claim  her  the  first  moment  possible,  believing 
his  care  more  availing  tlian  all.  He  was,  however,  so  pledged  to 
Captain  Gordon,  that,  without  strong  cause,  he  would  not  have  been 
justified  in  withdrawing;  besides,  Harry  was  under  his  charge,  and 
Dr.  May  and  Margaret  both  thought,  with  the  captain,  that  an  active 
life  would  be  a  better  occupation  for  him  than  watching  her.  He 
would  never  be  able  to  settle  down  at  his  new  home  comfortably 
without  her,  and  he  would  be  more  in  tlie  way  of  duty  while  pur- 
suing his  profession,  so  Margaret  nerved  herself  against  using  her 
influence  to  detain  him,  and  he  thanked  her  for  it. 

Though  hope  and  affection  could  not  at  once  repair  an  injured 
spine,  they  had  wonderful  powers  in  inciting  Margaret  to  new  efforts. 
Alan  was  as  tender  and  ready  of  hand  as  Kichard,  and  more  clever 
and  enterprising;  and  her  unfailing  trust  in  him  prevented  all 
alarms  and  misgivings,  so  that  wonders  were  effected,  and  her  father 
beheld  her  standing  with  so  little  support,  looking  so  healthful,  and 
so  blithe,  that  his  forebodings  melted  away,  and  he  talked  joyously 
of  tlie  future. 

The  great  achievement  was  taking  her  round  the  garden.  She 
could  not  bear  the  motion  of  wheels,  but  Alan  adopted  the  ham- 
mock principle,  and,  with  the  aid  of  Eichard  and  hia  crony,  the 


THE   DAISY   CHAIK.  287 

carpenter,  produced  a  maclaine  in  whicli  no  other  power  on  cartl 
could  have  prevailed  on  her  to  trust  herself,  but  in  which  she  was 
carried  round  the  garden  so  successfully,  that  there  was  even  a  talli 
of  next  Sunday,  and  of  the  minister. 

It  was  safely  accomplished,  and  tired  as  she  was,  Margaret  felt, 
as  she  whispered  to  Alan,  that  he  had  now  crowned  all  the  joy  that 
he  had  brought  to  her. 

Ethel  used  to  watch  them,  and  think  how  beautiful  their  coun- 
tenances were,  and  talk  them  over  with  her  father,  who  was  quite 
happy  about  them  now.  She  gave  assistance,  which  Alan  never 
once  called  unhandy,  to  all  his  contrivances,  and  often  floundered  in 
upon  his  conferences  with  Margaret,  in  a  way  that  would  have  been 
very  provoking,  if  she  had  not  always  blushed  and  looked  so  exces- 
sively discomfited,  that  they  had  only  to  laugh  and  reassure  her. 

Alan  was  struck  by  finding  that  the  casual  words  spoken  on  the 
way  from  Cocksmoor  had  been  so  strenuously  acted  on,  and  he 
brought  on  himself  a  whole  torrent  of  Ethel's  confused  narratives, 
which  Richard  and  Flora  would  fain  have  checked ;  but  Margaret 
let  them  continue,  as  she  saw  him  a  willing  listener,  and  was  grate- 
ful to  him  for  comprehending  the  ardent  girl. 

He  declared  himself  to  have  a  share  in  the  matter,  reminaing 
Ethel  of  her  appeal  to  him  to  bind  himself  to  the  service  of  Cocks- 
moor.  He  sent  a  sovereign  at  once,  to  aid  in  a  case  of  the  sudden 
death  of  a  pig;  and  when  securely  established  in  his  brotherly 
right,  he  begged  Ethel  to  let  him  know  what  would  help  her  most. 
She  stood  colouring,  twisting  her  hands,  and  wondering  what  to  say, 
whereupon  he  relieved  her  by  a  proposal  to  leave  an  order  for  teu 
pounds,  to  be  yearly  paid  into  her  hands,  as  a  fixed  income  for  her 
school. 

A  thousand  a  year  could  hardly  have  been  so  much  to  Ethel. 
'  Thank  you !  Oh,  this  is  charming  !  We  could  set  up  a  regular 
school !  Cherry  Elwood  is  the  very  woman  !  Alan,  you  have  made 
our  fortune  !  Oh,  Margaret !  Margaret !  I  must  go  and  tell  Ritchie 
and  Mary  ?  '     This  is  the  first  real  step  to  our  Church  and  all ! ' 

'  May  I  do  it  ?  '  said  Alan,  turning  to  Margaret,  as  Ethel  fran- 
tically burst  out  of  the  room ;  '  perhaps  I  should  have  asked 
leave  ? ' 

'  I  was  going  to  thank  you,'  said  Margaret.  '  It  is  the  very 
kindest  thing  you  could  have  done  by  dear  Ethel !  the  greatest  com- 
fort to  us.  She  will  be  at  peace  now,  when  anything  hinders  her 
from  going  to  Cocksmoor  ' 

'  I  wonder,'  said  Alan,  musing,  '  whether  we  shall  ever  be  able 
to  help  her  more  substantially.  I  cannot  do  anything  hastily,  for 
you  know  Maplewood  is  still  in  the  hands  of  the  executors,  and  1 
cannot  tell  what  claims  there  may  be  upon  me;  but  by-and-by, 
when  I  return,  if  I  find  no  other  pressing  duty,  might  not  a  Church 
at  Cocksmoor  be  a  thank  offering  for  all  I  have  found  here  ?  ' 


28S  TllK    DAI.SY    CHAIN. 

'  Oh  !  Alan,  what  joy  it  would  be  ! ' 

'It  is  a  lonpr  way  off,'  he  said  sadly;  '  and  perhaps  her  force  of 
perseverance  will  have  prevailed  alone.' 

'  I  suppose  I  must  not  tell  her,  even  as  a  vision.' 

*  It  is  too  uncertain ;  I  do  not  know  the  wants  of  the  Maple- 
wood  people,  and  I  must  provide  for  Hector.  I  would  not  let  these 
vague  dreams  interfere  with  her  resolute  work ;  but,  Margaret, 
what  a  vision  it  is  !  I  can  see  you  laying  the  first  stone  on  that 
fine  healthy  brow.' 

*  Oh  !  your  godchild  should  lay  the  first  stone  !  ' 

'  She  shall,  and  yoa  shall  lead  her.  And  there  shall  be  Ethers 
sharp  face  full  of  indescribable  things  as  she  marshals  her  children, 
and  Ilichard  shall  be  Curate,  and  read  in  his  steady  soft  tone,  and 
your  father  shall  look  sunny  with  his  boys  around  him,  and  you ' 

'  Oh  !  Alan  ! '  said-  Margaret,  who  had  been  listening  with  a 
smile,  'it  is,  indeed,  a  long  way  off!  ' 

*  I  shall  look  to  it  as  the  haven  where  I  would  be,'  said  the 
sailor. 

^  They  often  spoke  together  of  this  scheme,  ever  decking  it  in 
brighter  colours.  The  topic  seemed  to  suit  them  better  than  their 
own  future,  for  there  was  no  dwelling  on  that  without  an  occasional 
misgiving,  and  the  more  glad  the  anticipation,  the  deeper  the  sigh 
that  followed  on  Margaret's  part,  till  Mr.  Ernescliffc  followed  her 
lead,  and  thoy  seldom  spoke  of  these  uncertainties,  but  outwardly 
smiled  over  the  present,  inwardly  dwelt  on  the  truly  certain  hopes. 
There  were  readings  shared  together,  made  more  precious  than  all, 
by  the  conversations  that  ensued. 

The  hour  for  parting  came  at  last.  Ethel  never  knew  what 
passed  in  the  drawing-room,  whence  every  one  was  carefully 
excluded.  Dr.  May  wandered  about,  keeping  guard  over  the  door, 
and  watching  the  clock,  till,  at  the  last  moment,  he  knocked,  and 
called  in  a  trembling  voice,  '  Ernescliffc !  Alan  !  It  is  past  the 
quarter  !     You  must  not  stay  ! ' 

The  other  farewells  were  hurried ;  Alan  seemed  voiceless,  only 
nodding  in  reply  to  Mary's  vociferous  messages  to  Harry,  and  huskily 
whispering  to  Ethel,  '  Good  luck  to  Cocksmoor.' 

The  next  moment  the  door  had  shut  on  him,  and  Dr.  May  and 
Flora  had  gone  to  her  sister,  whom  she  found  not  tearful,  but  beg- 
ging to  be  left  alone. 

When  they  saw  her  again,  she  was  cheerful ;  she  kept  up  her 
composure  and  animation  without  flagging,  nor  did  she  discontinue 
her  new  exertions,  but  seemed  decidedly  the  happier  for  all  that  had 
passed. 

Letters  came  every  day  for  her,  and  presents  to  everyone.  Ethel 
had  a  gold  chain  and  eye-glass,  which,  it  was  hoped,  might  curt 
her  of  frowning  and  stooping,  though  her  various  ways  of  dang- 
ling her  new  possossinu,  caused  her  to  be  so  much  teazed  by  Flora 


TUE    DAISY    CHAIN.  289 

and  Norman^  that,  but  for  regard  to  Margaret's  feelings,  she  would 
not  have  worn  it  for  three  days. 

To  Mary  was  sent  a  daguerreotype  of  Harry,  her  glory  and 
delight.  Say,  who  would,  that  it  had  pig's  eyes,  a  savage  frown,  a 
pudding  chin,  there  were  his  own  tight  rings  of  hair,  his  gold- 
banded  cap,  his  bright  buttons,  how  could  she  prize  it  enough  ? 
She  exhibited  it  to  the  little  ones  ten  times  a  day,  she  kissed  it 
night  and  morning,  and  registered  her  vow  always  to  sleep  with  it 
under  her  '  pilow,'  in  a  letter  of  thanks,  which  Margaret  defended 
and  despatched,  in  spite  of  Miss  Winter's  horrors  at  its  disregard 
of  orthography. 

It  was  nearly  the  last  letter  before  the  Alcestis  was  heard  of  at 
Spithead.  Then  she  sailed  ;  she  sent  in  her  letters  to  Plymouth, 
and  her  final  greetings  by  a  Falmouth  cutter — ^poor  Harry's  wild 
scrawl  in  pencil,  looking  very  sea-sick. 

'  Dear  papa  and  all,  good-bye.  We  are  out  of  sight  of  lacd.  Three  years, 
and  keep  up  a  good  heart.     I  shall  soon  be  aU  right. 

'  Your  H.  May.' 

It  was  inclosed  in  Mr.  Ernescliffe's  envelope,  and  with  it  came 
tidings  that  Harry's  brave  spirit  was  not  failing,  even  under  unto- 
ward circumstances,  but  he  had  struggled  on  deck,  and  tried  to 
write,  when  all  his  contemporaries  had  given  in ;  in  fact,  he  was  a 
fine  fellow — everyone  liked  him,  and  Captain  Gordon,  though  chary 
of  commendation,  had  held  him  up  to  the  other  youngsters  as  an  ex- 
ample of  knowing  what  a  sailor  was  meant  to  be  like. 

Margaret  smiled,  and  cried  over  the  news  when  she  imparted  it 
— but  all  serenely — and  though  she  was  glad  to  be  alone,  and  wrote 
journals  for  Alan,  when  she  could  not  send  letters,  she  exerted  her- 
self to  be  the  same  sister  as  usual  to  the  rest  of  the  household,  and 
not  to  give  way  to  her  wandering  musings. 

From  one  subject  her  attention  never  strayed.  Ethel  had  never 
found  any  lack  of  sympathy  in  her  for  her  Cocksmoor  pursuits ;  but 
the  change  now  showed  that  where  once  Margaret  had  been  inter- 
ested, merely  as  a  kind  sister,  she  now  had  a  personal  concern,  and 
she  threw  herself  into  all  that  related  to  it  as  her  own  chief  interest 
and  pursuit — becoming  the  foremost  in  devising  plans,  and  arranging 
the  best  means  of  using  Mr,  Ernescliffe's  benefaction. 

The  Elwood  family  had  grown  in  the  good  opinion  of  the  Mays. 
Charity  had  hobbled  to  Church,  leaning  on  her  father's  arm,  and 
being  invited  to  dinner  in  the  kitchen,  the  acquaintance  had  been 
improved,  and  nurse  herself  had  pronounced  her  such  a  tidy,  good 
sort  of  body,  that  it  was  a  pity  she  had  met  with  such  a  misfortune. 
If  Miss  Ethel  brought  in  nothing  but  the  like  of  her,  they  should 
be  welcome — poor  thing,  how  tired  she  was  ! 

Nurse's  opinions  were  apt  to  be  sagacious,  especially  when  m 
the  face  of  her  prejudices,  and  this  gave  Margaret  confidence. 
Vol.  I.— 13 


200  Tin:    DAISY    CHAIN. 

Cherry  proved  to  have  bceu  carefully  taught  by  a  good  Clergyman 
and  his  wilV',  and  to  be  of  very  diflcrent  stamp  from  the  persons  to 
whom  the  <rirls  were  accustomed.  They  were  charmed  with  her, 
and  eagerly  C)ftc-rod  to  supply  her  with  books — respecting  her  the 
more  when  they  found  tliat  Mr.  Ilazlewood  had  already  lent  her 
their  chief  favourites.  Other  and  greater  needs  they  had  no  power 
to  fill  up. 

'  It  is  so  lone  without  the  Church  bells,  you  see,  Miss,'  said 
Mrs.  Elwood.  '  Our  tower  had  a  real  Cue  peal,  and  my  man  was 
one  of  the  ringers.  I  seems  quite  lost  without  them,  and  tucre  was 
Cherry,  went  a'most  every  day  with  the  children.' 

*  Every  day  ! '  cried  Mary,  looking  at  her  with  rcspecL. 
'  It  Avas  so  near,'  said  Cherry,  '  I  could  get  there  easy,  rtnd  I  got 
used  to  it  when  I  was  at  school.' 

'  Did  it  not  take  up  a  great  deal  of  time  ?  '  said  Ethel. 
'  Why,  you  see.  Ma'am,  it  came  morning  and  night,  ont  of  work- 
ing times,  and  I  can't  be  stii-ring  much.' 
'  Then  you  miss  it  sadly  ?'  said  Ethel. 

'  Yes,  Ma'am,  it  made  the  day  go  on  well  like,  and  settled  a 
body's  mind,  when  I  fretted  for  what  could  not  be  helped.  But 
I  try  not  to  fret  after  it  now,  and  Mr.  Ilazlewood  said,  if  I  did 
my  best  wherever  I  was,  the  Lord  would  still  join  our  prayers 
together.' 

Mr.  Ilazlewood  was  recollected  by  Mr.  "Wilmot  as  an  old  College 
friend,  and  a  correspondence  with  him  fully  confirmed  the  favour- 
able estimate  of  the  Elwoods,  and  was  decisive  in  determining  that 
the  day-school,  with  Alan's  ten  pounds  as  salary,  and  a  penny  a 
week  from  each  child,  should  be  offered  to  Cherry. 

Mr.  Ilazlewood  answered  for  her  sound  excellence,  and  aptitude 
for  managing  little  children,  though  he  did  not  promise  genius,  such 
as  should  fulfil  the  requirements  of  modern  days.  "With  theso 
Cocksmoor  could  dispense  at  present ;  Cherry  was  humbly  gratified, 
and  her  parents  delighted  with  the  honour  and  profit ;  there  was  a 
kitthen  which  afforded  great  facilities,  and  Ilichard  and  his  carpenter 
managed  the  fitting  to  admiration  ;  Margaret  devised  all  manner  of 
r.sfful  arrangements,  settled  matters  with  great  earnestness,  saw 
Cherry  frequently,  discussed  plans,  and  learnt  the  history  and  char- 
acter of  each  child,  as  thoroughly  as  Ethel  herself.  Mr.  llamsdeu 
himself  came  to  the  opening  of  the  school,  and  said  so  much  of  the 
obligations  of  Cocksmoor  to  the  young  ladies,  that  Ethel  would  not 
have  known  which  way  to  look,  if  Flora  had  not  kindly  borne  tho 
brunt  of  his  compliments. 

Everyone  was  pleased,  except  Mrs.  Green,  who  took  upon  her- 
self to  set  about  various  malicious  reports  of  Cherry  Elwood ;  but 
nobody  cared  for  them,  except  Mrs.  Elwood,  who  flew  into  such 
passions,  that  Ethel  was  quite  disap]>olnted  in  her,  though  not  ia 
Cherry,  who  meekly  tried  to  silence  her  mother,  begged  the  young 


TIIK   DAISY   CIIALN",  291 

ladies  not  to  be  vesed,  and  showed  a  quiet  dignity  that  soon  made 
the  shafts  of  slander  fall  inoffensively. 

All  went  well ;  there  was  a  school  instead  of  a  hubbub,  clean 
faces  instead  of  dirty,  shiniug  hair  instead  of  wild  elf-locks,  orderly 
children  instead  of  little  savages.  The  order  and  obedience  that 
Ethel  could  not  gain  in  six  months,  seemed  impressed  in  six  days 
by  Cherry  ;  the  neat  work  made  her  popular  with  the  mothers,  her 
firm  gentleness  won  the  hearts  of  the  children,  and  the  kitchen  was 
filled  not  only  with  boys  and  girls  from  the  quarry,  but  with  some 
little  ones  from  outlying  cottages  of  Fordholm  and  Abbotstoke,  and 
there  was  even  a  smart  little  farmer,  who  had  been  unbearable  at 
home. 

Margaret's  unsuccessful  Bath  chair  was  lent  to  Cherry,  and  in  it 
her  scholars  drew  her  to  Stoneborough  every  Sunday,  and  slowly 
began  to  redeem  their  character  with  the  ladies,  who  began  to  lose 
the  habit  of  shrinking  out  of  their  way — the  Stoneborough  children 
did  so  instead ;  and  Flora  and  Ethel  were  always  bringing  home 
stories  of  injustice  to  their  scholars,  fancied  or  real,  and  of  triumphs 
in  their  having  excelled  any  national  school  girh  The  most  stupid 
children  at  Cocksmoor  always  seemed  to  them  wise  in  comparison 
with  the  Stoneborough  girls,  and  the  Sunday-school  might  have 
become  to  Ethel  a  school  of  rivalry,  if  Richard  had  not  opened  her 
eyes  by  a  quiet  observation,  that  the  town  girls  seemed  to  fare  as 
ill  with  her,  as  the  Cocksmoor  girls  did  with  the  town  ladies.  Then 
she  caught  herself  up,  tried  to  be  candid,  and  found  that  she  was 
not  always  impartial  in  her  judgments.  Why  would  competition 
mingle  even  in  the  best  attempts  ? 

Cherry  did  not  so  bring  forward  her  scholars,  that  Ethel  could 
have  many  triumphs  of  this  dangerous  kind.  Indeed,  Ethel  was  often 
vexed  with  her ;  for  though  she  taught  needlework  admirably,  and 
enforced  correct  reading,  and  reverent  repetition,  her  strong  provin- 
cial dialect  was  a  stumbling-block ;  she  could  not  put  questions 
without  book,  and  nothing  would  teach  her  Ethel's  rational  system 
of  arithmetic.  That  she  was  a  capital  dame,  and  made  the  children 
very  good,  was  allowed ;  but  now  and  then,  when  mortified  by  hear- 
ing what  was  done  at  Stoneborough,  Fordholm,  or  Abbotstoke,  Ethel 
would  make  vigorous  efforts,  which  resulted  only  in  her  coming 
home  fuming  at  Cherry's  '  outrageous  dullness.' 

These  railings  always  hurt  Margaret,  who  had  made  Chen-y 
almost  into  a  friend,  and  generally  liked  to  have  a  visit  from  her 
during  the  Sunday,  when  she  always  dined  with  the  servants. 
Then  school  questions,  Cocksmoor  news,  and  the  tempers  of  the 
children,  were  talked  over,  and  Cherry  was  now  and  then  drawn 
into  home  reminiscences,  and  descriptions  of  the  ways  of  her  former 
schooh  There  was  no  fear  of  spoiling  her — notice  from  her  supe- 
riors was  natural  to  her,  and  she  had  the  lady-likeness  of  womanly 
goodness,  so  as  never  to  go  beyond  her  own  place.     She  had  had 


292  THE   DAISY    CIIALV. 

many  trials,  too,  and  Margaret  learut  the  true  lilstory  of  them,  at 
fihc  won  Cherry's  confidence,  and  entered  into  them,  feeling  their 
likeness,  yet  dissimilarity,  to  her  own 

Cherry  had  been  a  brisk  happy  girl  in  a  good  place,  resting  in 
one  of  the  long  eugagemonts  that  often  extend  over  half  the  life  of 
a  servant,  enjoying  the  nod  of  her  baker  as  he  left  his  bread,  and 
her  walk  from  Church  with  him  on  alternate  Sundays.  But  poor 
Cherry  had  been  exposed  to  the  perils  of  window  cleaning;  and, 
after  a  frightful  full,  had  wakened  to  find  herself  in  a  hospital,  and 
her  severe  sufferings  had  left  her  a  cripple  for  life. 

And  the  baker  had  not  been  an  Alan  Ernescliffe  !  She  did  not 
complain  of  him — he  had  come  to  see  her,  and  had  been  much 
grieved,  but  she  had  told  him  she  could  never  be  a  useful  wife ; 
and  before  she  had  used  her  crutches,  he  was  married  to  her  pretty 
fellow-servant. 

Cherry  spoke  very  simply ;  she  hoped  it  was  better  for  Long, 
and  believed  Susan  would  make  him  a  good  wife.  Ethel  would 
have  thought  she  did  not  feel,  but  Margaret  knew  better. 

She  stroked  the  thin  slight  fingers,  and  gently  said,  '  Poor 
Cherry  ! '  and  Cherry  wiped  away  a  tear,  and  said,  '  Yes,  Ma'am, 
thank  you,  it  is  best  for  him.  I  should  not  have  wished  him  to 
grieve  for  what  cannot  be  helped.' 

'  llesignation  is  the  great  comfort.' 

'  Yes,  Ma'am.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for.  I  don't 
blame  no  one,  but  I  do  see  how  some,  as  are  married,  seem  to  get 
to  think  more  of  this  world  ;  and  now  and  then  I  fancy  I  can  see 
how  it  is  best  for  me  as  it  is.' 

Margaret  sighed,  as  she  remembered  certain  thoughts  before 
Alan's  return. 

'  Then,  Ma'am,  there  has  been  such  goodness !  I  did  vex  at 
bL-ing  a  poor  helpless  thing,  nothing  but  a  burthen  on  father  ;  and 
when  wo  had  to  go  from  home,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  llazlewood  and 
all,  I  cau't  tell  you  how  bad  it  \va.s.  Ma'am.' 

'  Then  you  are  comforted  now  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  Ma'am,'  said  Cherry,  brightening.  '  It  seems  as  if  Ho 
had  given  me  something  to  do,  and  there  are  you  and  Mr.  Richard, 
ajid  Miss  Ethel,  to  help.  I  should  like,  please  God,  to  be  of  some 
good  to  those  poor  children.' 

'  I  am  sure  you  will.  Cherry  ;   I  wish  I  could  do  as  much.' 

Clierry's  tears  had  come  again.  '  Ah  !  Ma'am,  you — '  and  she 
etoppud  short,  and  rose  to  depart.  Margaret  held  out  her  hand  to 
wish  her  good-bye.  '  Please,  Miss,  I  was  thinking  how  Mr.  llazle- 
wood said  that  God  fits  our  place  to  us,  and  us  to  our  place.' 

'  Tliauk  you.  Cherry,  you  arc  leaving  me  something  to  re- 
member.' 

And  Jlargaret  lay  questioning  witli  herself,  whether  the  school- 
mistress had  not  been  the  most  self-denying  of  the  two  ;  but  withal 


THE    ::::AIST   CHAIX.  293 

gazing  on  the  hoop  of  pearls  which  Alan  had  chosen  as  the  ring  of 
betrothal. 

'  The  Pearl  of  great  price,'  murmured  she  to  herself;  '  if  we  hold 
that,  the  rest  will  soon  matter  but  little  !  It  remaineth  that  both 
they  that  have  wives,  be  as  they  that  have  none,  and  they  that  weep, 
as  though  they  wept  not,  and  they  that  rejoice,  as  though  they  re- 
joiced not !  If  ever  Alan  and  I  have  a  home  together  upon  earth, 
may  all  too  confident  joy  be  tempered  by  the  fears  that  we  have  be- 
gun with !  I  hope  this  probation  may  make  me  less  likely  to  be 
taken  up  with  the  cares  and  pleasures  of  his  position,  than  I  might 
have  been  last  year.  He  is  one  who  can  best  help  the  mind  to  go 
truly  upward  !     But  oh  !  that  voyage ! ' 


CIIAPTEK    XXIX. 


'  Heart  affluence  in  houscluild  talk, 
From  social  fountains  never  dry.' 

Tennyson. 


'  What  a  bore  ! 

'  What's  the  matter  now  ? ' 

'  Here  has  this  old  fellow  asked  me  to  dinner  again ! ' 

'  A  fine  pass  we  are  come  to  !  '  cried  Dr.  May,  half  amused,  half 
irate.  '  I  should  like  to  know  Avhat  I  should  have  said  at  your  age, 
if  the  head-master  had  asked  me  to  dinner.' 

'  Papa  is  not  so  very  fond  of  dining  at  Dr.  Iloston's,'  said  Ethel. 

'  A  whipper-snapper  schoolboy,  who  might  be  thankful  to  dine 
anywhere  ! '  continued  Dr.  May,  while  the  girls  burst  out  laughing, 
and  Norman  looked  injured. 

'  It  is  very  ungrateful  of  Norman,'  said  Flora ;  '  I  cannot  see 
what  he  finds  to  complain  of." 

'  You  would  know,'  said  Norman,  '  if,  instead  of  playing  those 
perpetual  tunes  of  yours,  you  had  to  sit  it  out  in  that  perfumy 
drawing-room,  without  anything  to  listen  to  worth  hearing.  If  I 
have  looked  over  that  Court  Album  once,  I  have  a  dozen  times,  and 
there  is  not  another  book  in  the  place  ! ' 

'  I  am  glad  there  is  not,'  said  Flora.  '  I  am  quite  ashamed  to 
see  you  for  ever  turning  over  those  old  pictures  !  You  cannot  guess 
how  stupid  you  look.  I  wonder  Mrs.  Hoxton  likes  to  have  you,' 
she  added,  patting  his  shoulders  between  jest  and  earnest. 

'  I  wish  she  would  not,  then !     It  is  only  to  escort  you.' 

'  Nonsense,  Norman,  you  know  better ! '  cried  Ethel.  '  You 
know  it  is  for  your  own  sake,  and  to  make  up  for  their  injustice, 
that  he  invites  you,  or  Flora  either.' 


29-4  Tin-:  daisy  chain. 

*  Ilusb,  Ethel !  lie  gives  liiiusclf  quite  airs  enough  already,'  said 
tlie  Doctor. 

'  Papa ! '  said  Etiicl,  in  vexation,  though  he  gave  her  a  pincii  to 
show  it  was  all  in  good  humour,  -while  he  went  on,  '  I  am  glad  to 
hear  they  do  leave  him  to  himself  in  a  corner.  A  very  good  thiiio', 
too  !     Where  else  .should  a  great  gawky  schoolboy  be  ?  " 

'  Safe  at  home,  where  I  wish  he  would  let  me  be,'  muttered 
Norman,  though  he  contrived  to  smile,  and  followed  Flora  out  of 
the  room,  without  sulijecting  himself  to  the  imputation  of  offended 
dignitj'. 

Ethel  wag  displeased,  and  began  her  defence  :  '  Papa  !  I  wish — ' 
and  there  she  checked  herself. 

'  Eh  !  Miss  Ethel's  bristles  up! '  said  her  fiither,  who  seemed  in 
a  somewhat  mischievous  mood  of  tcazing. 

'  IIow  could  you,  papa  ? '  cried  she. 

'How  could  I  what,  Miss  Etheldred?' 

'  Plague  Norman,'. — the  words  would  com'..  "Accuse  liim  of 
airs.' 

*  I  hate  to  sec  young  fellows  above  taking  an  honour  from  their 
ciders,'  said  Dr.  May. 

*  Now  papa,  piapa,  you  know  it  is  no  such  thing.  Dr.  Iloxton's 
parties  are  very  dull — you  know  tlicy  are,  and  it  i.s  not  fair  on 
Norman.  If  he  was  set  up  and  delighted  at  going  so  often,  then 
you  would  call  him  conceited.' 

'  Conceit  has  a  good  many  lurking  places,'  said  Dr.  Jlay.  '  It  is 
harder  to  go  and  be  overlooked,  than  to  stay  at  home.' 

*  Now,  papa,  you  are  not  to  call  Norman  conceited  ! '  cried  Ethel. 
'  You  don't  believe  that  he  is  any  such  thing.' 

'  Why,  not  exactly,'  said  Dr.  May,  smiling.  '  The  boy  lias 
missed  it  majvcllously ;  but,  you  see,  he  has  everything  that  subtle 
imp  would  wish  to  food  upon,  and  it  is  no  harm  to  give  him  a  lick 
witli  the  rough  side  of  the  tongue,  as  your  canny  Scots  grandfather 
used  to  say.' 

'Ah  !  if  you  knew,  papa — '  b:;ffan  Ethel. 
If  I  knew  ?  ' 

'  No,  no,  I  must  not  tclh' 

'  AVhat,  a  secret,  is  there  ?  ' 

*  I  wish  it  was  not ;  I  should  like  to  tell  you  very  much,  but 
then,  you  sec,  it  is  Norman's,  and  you  are  to  be  surprit^ed.' 

'  Your  surprise  is  likely  to  be  very  much  like  Dlanclie'.s  birthday 
presents,  a  stage  aside.' 

'  No,  I  am  going  to  keep  it  to  myself.' 

Two  or  three  days  after,  as  Ethel  was  going  to  the  school-room 
after  breakfast,  Dr.  May  beckoned  her  back  to  the  dining-room,  and 
with  his  merry  look  of  siguilicancc,  said,  '  Well,  ma'am,  I  hava 
fytnid  nut  your  mystery  ! ' 

'  About  Normau  ?     Ob  papa  !     Did  ho  tell  you  ?  ' 


Til!-:  I'AisY  cuAi:^.  293 

*  When  I  came  home  from  the  hospital  lasit  night,  at  an  hour 
when  all  respectable  characters,  except  doctors  and  police,  should 
be  in  their  vrarra  beds,  I  beheld  a  light  in  Norman's  "window,  so  me- 
thought  I  would  see  what  Gravity  was  doing  out  of  his  bed  at  mid- 
night— ' 

'  And  you  found  him  at  his  Greek — ' 

'  So  that  was  the  meaning  of  his  looking  so  lank  and  care-woru, 
just  as  he  did  last  year,  and  he  the  prince  of  the  school !  I  could 
have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  fling  the  books  at  his  head ! ' 

'  But  you  consent,  don't  you,  to  his  going  up  for  the  scholar- 
ship ? ' 

'  I  consent  to  anything,  as  long  as  he  keeps  within  due  bounds, 
and  does  not  work  himself  to  death.  I  am  glad  of  knowing  it,  for 
now  I  can  put  a  moderate  check  upon  it.' 

'  And  did  he  tell  you  all  about  it  ?  ' 

'  He  told  nie  he  felt  as  if  he  owed  it  to  us  to  giin  something  for 
himself,  since  I  had  given  up  the  Randall  to  gratify  him — a  pretty 
sort  of  gratification.' 

'  Yes,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  get  away  fiT.m  school.  He  says  he 
knows  it  is  bad  for  him — as  it  is  uncomfortab;^i  to  be  singled  out  in 
the  way  Dr.  Hoxton  does  now.  '  You  know,'  pleaded  Ethel,  'it  is 
not  ingratitude  or  elation,  but  it  is,  somehow,  not  nice  to  be  treated 
as  he  is,  set  apart  from  the  rest.' 

'  True  ;  Dr.  Hoxton  never  had  taste  or  judgment.  If  Norman 
were  not  a  lusus  naturcB^''  said  Dr.  May,  hesitating  for  a  word,  '  his 
head  would  have  been  turned  long  ago.  And  he  wants  companions 
too — he  has  been  forced  out  of  boyhood  too  soon,  poor  fellow — and 
Harry  gone  too.  He  does  not  get  anything  like  real  relaxation, 
and  he  v>'ill  be  better  an>:ng  youths  than  bo3's.  Stoneborough  will 
never  be  what  it  was  in  my  time  ! '  added  the  Doctor,  mournfully. 
'  I  never  thought  to  see  the  poor  old  place  come  to  this ;  but  there — 
when  all  the  better  class  send  their  sons  to  the  great  public  schools, 
and  leave  nothing  but  riff-raff  here,  one  is  forced,  for  a  boy's  own 
sake,  to  do  the  same.' 

'  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad !  Then  you  have  consented  to  the  rest  of 
Norman's  scheme,  and  will  not  keep  poor  little  Tom  at  school  here 
without  him  ? ' 

'  By  what  he  tells  me,  it  would  be  downright  ruin  to  the  boy.  I 
little  thought  to  have  to  take  a  son  of  mine  away  from  Stoneborough ; 
but  Norman  is  the  best  judge,  and  he  is  the  only  person  who  seems 
to  have  made  any  impression  on  Tom,  so  I  shall  let  it  be.  In  fact,' 
he  added,  half  smiling, '  I  don't  know  v,'hat  I  could  refuse  old  June.' 

'  That  s  right ! '  cried  Ethel  '  That  is  so  nice  !  Then,  if  Nor- 
man gets  the  scholarship,  Tom  is  to  go  to  Mr.  Wilmot  first,  and 
then  to  Eton  ! ' 

'  If  Norman  gains  the  scholarship  but  that  is  an  if,'  said  Dr  May 


290  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

as  tliouprh  hoping  for  a  loop-liolc  to  escape  offending  tlic  eliado  of 
Bishop  Whiehcotc. 

'  Oh,  papa,  you  cannot  doubt  of  that !  ' 

'  I  cannot  tell,  Ethel.  He  is  facile  princcps  here  in  his  own 
worUl,  hut  wo  do  not  know  how  it  maybe  when  he  is  measured  with 
public  schoolmen,  who  have  had  more  first-rate  tutorship  than  poor 
old  lloxton's.' 

*  Ah  !  he  says  so,  but  I  thought  that  was  all  his  humility.' 

'  Better  he  should  be  prepared.  If  he  had  had  all  those  advan- 
tages— but  it  may  be  as  well  after  all.  I  always  had  a  hankering 
to  have  sent  him  to  Eton,  but  your  dear  motlier  used  to  say  it  was 
not  fair  on  the  others.  And  now,  to  see  him  striving  in  order  to 
give  the  advantage  of  it  to  his  little  brother !  I  only  hope,  Master 
Thomas  is  worthy  of  it — but  it  is  a  boy  I  can't  understand.' 

'  Nor  I,'  said  Ethel ;  '  he  never  seems  to  say  anything  he  can 
help,  and  goes  after  Norman  without  talking  to  aujone  else.' 

'  I  give  him  up  to  Norman's  management ! '  said  Dr.  May.  '  IIo 
says  the  boy  is  very  clever,  but  I  have  not  seen  it ;  and,  as  to  more 
serious  matters. — However,  I  must  take  it  on  Norman's  word,  that 
he  is  wishing  to  learn  truth.  We  made  an  utter  mistake  about 
him ;  I  don't  know  who  is  to  blame  for  it.' 

'  Have  you  told  Margaret  about  Norman's  plan  ?  '  asked  Ethel. 

'  No  ;  he  desired  me  to  say  nothing.  Indeed,  I  should  not  like 
Tom's  leaving  school  to  be  talked  of  beforehand.' 

'  Norman  said  he  did  not  want  Flora  to  hear,  because  she  is  so 
much  with  the  lloxtons,  and  he  said  they  Avould  all  watch  him.' 

'  Aye,  aye !  and  we  must  keep  his  secret.  "What  a  boy  it  is ! 
But  it  is  not  safe  to  say  conceited  things.  "We  shall  have  a  fall  yet, 
Ethel.  Not  seventeen,  remember,  and  brought  up  at  a  mere  gram- 
mar-school.' 

'  But  Ave  shall  still  have  the  spirit  that  made  him  try,'  said 
Ethel,  '  and  that  is  the  thing.' 

'  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,'  said  the  Doctor,  lingering,  'for  my 
own  part,  I  don't  care  a  rush  for  it !  '  and  he  dashed  off  to  his 
work,  while  Ethel  stood  laughing. 

'  Papa  was  so  very  kind,'  said  Norman,  trcmuloush',  when  Ethel 
followed  him  to  his  room,  to  congratulate  him  on  having  gained  his 
father's  assent,  of  which  he  had  been  more  in  doubt  than  she. 

'  And  you  see  ho  pitc  approves  of  the  scheme  for  Tom,  except 
for  thinking  it  disrespect  to  Bishop  AVhichcotc.  He  said  he  only 
hoped  Tom  was  worthy  of  it.' 

'  Tom  ! '  cried  Norman.  '  Take  my  word  for  it,  Ethel,  Tom  will 
surprise  you  all.     lie  will  beat  us  all  to  nothing,  I  know  ! ' 

'  If  only  he  can  be  cured  of — ' 

'  lie  will,'  said  Norman,  '  when  once  he  has  outgrown  his  frights, 
and   that  he  may  do   at   Mr.  AVilmot's,  apart  from   those  feUowa 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  297 

Wheu  I  go  up  for  this  scholarstip,  you  must  look  after  his  lessons, 
and  see  if  you  are  not  surprised  at  his  construing ! ' 

'  When  you  go.     It  will  be  in  a  month  ! ' 

'  He  has  told  no  one,  I  hope.' 

'  No;  but  I  hardly  think  he  will  bear  not  telling  Margaret.' 

*  "Well — I  hate  a  thing  being  out  of  one's  own  keeping.  I  should 
not  so  much  dislike  Margaret's  knowing,  but  I  xvonH  have  Flora 
know — mind  that,  Ethel,'  he  said,  with  disproportionate  vehemence. 

'  I  only  hope  Flora  will  not  be  vexed.  But,  oh  dear  !  how  nice 
it  will  be  when  you  have  it,  telling  Meta  Rivers,  and  all ! ' 

'  And  this  is  a  fine  way  of  getting  it,  standing  talking  here.  Not 
that  I  shall — You  little  know  what  public  schools  can  do  !  But  that 
is  no  reason  against  trying.' 

'  Good  night,  then.  Only  one  thing  more.  You  mean  that,  till 
further  orders,  Margaret  should  not  know.' 

*  Of  course,'  said  Norman,  impatiently.  '  She  won't  take  any 
of  Flora's  silly  affronts,  and,  what  is  more,  she  would  not  care  half  so 
much  as  before  Alan  ErnesclifFe  came.' 

'  Oh,  Norman,  Norman  !  I'm  sure — ' 

'  Why,  it  is  what  they  always  say.     Everybody  can't  be  fir.s 
and  Ernesclifi"e  has  the  biggest  half  of  her,  I  can  see.' 

'I  am  sure  I  did  not,'  said  Ethel,  in  a  mortified  voice. 

'Why,  of  course,  it  always  comes  of  people  having  lovers.' 

'  Then  I  am  sure  I  won't ! '  exclaimed  Ethel. 

Norman  went  into  a  fit  of  laughing. 

'  You  may  laugh,  Norman,  but  I  will  never  let  papa  or  any  of 
you  be  second  to  anyone  ! '  she  cried,  vehemently. 

A  brotherly  home-truth  followed  :  '  Nobody  asked  you,  sir,  she 
said! '  was  muttered  by  Norman,  still  laughing  heartily. 

'  I  know,'  said  Ethel,  not  in  the  least  offended,  '  I  am  very  ugly 
and  very  awkward,  but  I  don't  care.  There  never  can  be  anybody 
in  all  the  world  that  I  shall  like  half  as  well  as  papa,  and  I  am  glad 
no  one  is  ever  likely  to  make  me  care  less  for  him  and  Cocksmoor.' 

'  Stay  till  you  are  tried,'  said  Norman. 

Ethel  squeezed  up  her  eyes,  curled  up  her  nose,  showed  her  teeth 
in  a  horrible  grimace,  and  made  a  sort  of  snarl :  '  Yah  !  That's  the 
face  I  shall  make  at  them  !  '  and  then,  with  another  good-night,  ran 
to  her  own  room. 

Norman  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  right  with  regard  to  Margaret 
— her  thoughts  and  interests  had  been  chiefly  engrossed  by  Alan 
ErnesclifFe,  and,  so  far  drawn  away  from  her  own  family,  that  when 
the  Alcestis  was  absolutely  gone  beyond  all  reach  of  letters  for  the 
present,  Margaret  could  not  help  feeling  somewhat  of  a  void,  and  as 
if  the  home  concerns  were  not  "SO  entire  an  occupation  for  her  mind 
as  formerly. 

She  would  fain  have  thrown  herself  into  them  again,  but  she 
became  conscious  that  there  was  a  difference.     She  was  still  the 
Vol.  I.—  13* 


298  TIIK    DAISY    ClIAIX. 

object  of  hor  father's  intense  tenderness  and  solicitude,  indeed  slie 
could  not  be  otherwise,  but  it  came  over  her  soractimcs  that  she  Tras 
less  necessary  to  him  than  in  the  first  year.  He  was  not  conscious 
of  any  chanjro,  and  indeed,  it  hardly  amounted  to  a  change,  and  yet 
Margaret,  lying  inactive  and  thoughtful,  began  to  observe  that  tlie 
fullness  of  his  confidence  was  passing  to  Ethel.  Now  and  then  it 
would  appear  that  he  fancied  he  had  told  IMargaret  little  matter?, 
when  he  had  really  told  them  to  Ethel — and  it  was  Ethel  who  would 
linger  with  him  in  the  drawing-room  after  the  others  had  gone  up 
at  night,  or  who  would  be  late  at  the  morning's  reading,  and  disarm 
Miss  Winter,  by  pleading  that  papa  had  been  talking  to  her.  The 
secret  they  shared  together  was,  of  course,  the  origin  of  much  of 
this  ;  but  also  Ethel  was  now  more  entirely  the  Doctor's  own  than 
Margaret  could  be  after  her  engagement;  and  there  was  a  likeness 
of  miud  between  the  father  and  daughter  that  could  not  but  develop 
more  in  this  year,  than  in  all  Ethel's  life,  when  f<he  had  made  the 
mo.st  rapid  progress.  Perhaps,  too,  the  Doctor  looked  on  Margaret 
rather  as  the  autiiority  and  mistress  of  his  house,  while  Ethel  was 
more  of  a  playfellow;  and  thus,  without  either  having  the  least 
suspicion  that  the  one  sister  was  taking  the  place  of  the  otlier,  and 
without  any  actual  neglect  of  Margaret,  Ethel  was  his  chief  com- 
panion. 

'IIow  excited  and  anxious  Norman  looks  ! '  said  Margaret,  one 
day,  wlien  he  had  rushed  in  at  the  dinner-hour,  asking  for  his  father, 
and,  when  he  could  not  find  him,  shouting  out  for  Ethel.  'I  hope 
there  is  nothing  amiss.  lie  has  looked  thin  and  worn  for  some 
time,  and  yet  his  work  at  school  is  very  easy  to  him.' 

'  I  wish  there  may  be  nothing  wrong  there  again,'  said  Flora. 
'  There  !  there's  the  front  door  banging  !  lie  is  oS" !  Ethel  ! ' — 
stepping  to  the  door,  and  calling  in  iier  sister,  who  came  from  the 
street  door,  her  hair  blowing  about  with  the  wind. — '  What  did 
Norman  want  ?  ' 

'  Only  to  know  whether  papa  liadleft  a  note  for  Dr.  Hoxton,'  said 
Ethel,  looking  very  confu.sed  and  very  merry. 

'  That  was  not  all,'  said  Flora.     '  Now  don't  be  absurd,  Ethel — I 
hate  mysteries.' 

'  Last  time  I  had  a  secret,  you  would  not  believe  it,'  said  Ethel, 
laughing. 

'  Come  ! '  exclaimed  Flora,  '  why  cannot  you  tell  us  at  once 
what  is  going  on  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  was  desired  not,'  said  Ethel.  '  You  will  hear  it  soon 
enough,'  and  she  capered  a  little. 

'Let  her  aloue,  Flora,' said  Margaret.  'I  see  there  is  nothing 
wrong.' 

'  If  .slie  is  desired  to  be  silent  there  is  nothing  to  be  said,'  replied 
Flora,  sitting  down  again   while  Ethel  ran  away  to  guard  her  secret 


THE    DAISY   CHAIN.  299 

*  Absurd  !  '  muttered  Flora.  '  I  cannot  imagine  why  Ethel  is 
alwajs  making  mysteries  !  ' 

'  She  cannot  help  other  people  having  confidence  in  her,'  said 
Margaret,  gently. 

'  She  need  not  be  so  important,  then,'  said  Flora — '  always  having 
private  conferences  with  papa  !  I  do  not  think  it  is  at  all  fair  ou 
the  rest.' 

'  Ethel  is  a  very  superior  person,'  said  Margaret  with  half  a  sigh. 

Flora  might  toss  her  head,  but  she  attempted  no  denial  in  words. 

'  And,'  continued  Margaret,  '  if  papa  does  find  her  his  best 
companion  and  friend,  we  ought  to  be  glad  of  it.' 

'  I  do  not  call  it  just,'  said  Flora. 

'  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  helped,'  said  Margaret,  '  the  best  7?ii(st 
be  preferred.' 

'  As  to  that,  Ethel  is  often  very  ridiculous  and  silly.' 

'  She  is  improving  every  day ;  and  you  know  dear  mamma  always 
thought  her  the  finest  character  amongst  us.' 

'  Then  you  are  ready  to  be  left  out,  and  have  your  third  sister 
always  put  before  you  ?  ' 

'  No,  Flora,  that  is  not  the  case.  Neither  she  nor  papa  would 
ever  be  unfair ;  but,  as  she  would  say  herself,  what  they  can't  help, 
they  can't  help ;  and,  as  she  grows  older,  she  must  surpass  mo 
more  and  more.' 

'  And  you  like  it  ?  ' 

'  I  like  it — when — when  I  think  of  papa,  and  of  his  dear,  noble 
Etheh     I  do  like  it,  when  I  am  not  selfish.' 

Margaret  turned  away  her  head,  but  presently  looked  up  again. 

'  Only,  Flora,'  she  said,  '  pray  do  not  say  one  word  of  this,  on 
any  account,  to  Ethel.  She  is  so  happy  with  papa,  and  I  would 
not,  for  anything,  have  her  think  I  feel  neglected,  or  had  any 
jealousy.' 

'Ah,'  thought  Flora,  '  you  can  give  up  sweetly,  but  you  have 
Alan  to  fall  back  upon.  Now  I,  who  certainly  have  the  best  right, 
and  a  great  deal  more  practical  sense — ' 

Flora  took  Margaret's  advice,  and  did  not  reproach  Ethel,  for  a 
little  reflection  convinced  her  that  she  should  make  a  silly  figure  in 
so  doing,  and  she  did  not  like  altercations. 

It  was  the  same  evening  that  Norman  came  in  from  school  with 
his  hands  full  of  papers,  and,  with  one  voice,  his  father  and  Ethel 
exclaimed,  '  You  have  them  ?  ' 

'  Yes;'  and  he  gave  a  letter  to  his  father,  while  Blanche,  who 
had  a  very  inquisitive  pair  of  eyes,  began  to  read  from  a  paper  he 
placed  on  the  tabic. 

'  Norman  Walter,  son  of  Richard  and  Margaret  May,  High- 
etreet,  Doctor  of  Medicine,  December  21st,  18 —  Thomas  Ramsderu' 

'  What  is  that  for,  Norman  ? '  and,  as  he  did  not  attend,  she 
called  Mary  to  share  her  speculations,  and  spell  out  the  words. 


300  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

*  Ila  ! '  cried  Dr.  May,  '  this  is  capital !  The  old  Doctor  soeniB 
not  to  know  how  to  say  enough  for  you.     Have  you  read  it  ?  ' 

*  No,  lie  only  told  lue  he  had  said  something  in  my  favour,  and 
wished  me  all  success.' 

'  Success !  '  cried  Mary.  '  Oh,  Norman,  you  are  not  going  to 
sea,  too  ? ' 

*  No,  no  !  '  interposed  Blanche,  knowingly —  '  he  is  going  to  be 
married.  I  heard  nurse  wish  her  brother  success  >vhcn  he  was 
going  to  marry  the  washerwoman  with  a  red  face,' 

'  No,'  said  Mary, '  people  never  are  married  till  they  are  twenty.' 

'  But  I  tell  you,'  persisted  Blanche,  '  people  always  write  like 
this,  in  a  great  book  in  Church,  when  they  are  married.  I  know, 
for  we  always  go  into  Church  with  Lucy  and  nurse,  when  there  is 
a  wedding.' 

'  Well,  Norman,  I  wish  you  success  witli  the  bride  you  arc  to 
court,'  said  Dr.  May — much  diverted  with  the  young  ladies'  con- 
jectures. 

'  But  is  it  really?  '  said  Mary,  making  her  eyes  as  round  as  full 
moons. 

'  Is  it  really  ?  '  repeated  Blanche —  '  Oh  dear  !  is  Norman  going 
to  be  married  V  I  wish  it  was  to  be  Meta  llivers,  for  then  I  could 
always  ride  her  dear  little  white  pony.' 

'  Tell  them,'  whispered  Norman,  a  good  dwil  out  of  countenance, 
as  he  leant  over  Ethel,  and  quitted  the  room. 

*  Ethel  cried,  *  Now  then  !'  and  looked  at  her  father,  while  Blanche 
and  Mary  reiterated  inquiries — marriage,  and  going  to  sea,  being 
the  only  events  that,  in  their  imagination,  the  world  could  furnish. 
Going  to  try  for  a  Balliol  scholarship!  It  was  a  sad  falling  off, 
even  if  they  understood  what  it  meant.  The  Doctor's  explanations 
to  Margaret  had  a  tone  of  apology  for  having  kept  her  in  ignorance, 
and  Flura  said  few  words,  but  felt  herself  injured  ;  she  had  nearly 
gone  to  3Irs.  lloxton  that  afternoon,  and  how  strange  it  would  have 
been  if  anything  had  been  said  to  her  of  her  own  brother's  projects, 
when  slie  was  in  ignorance. 

Ethel  slipped  away  to  her  brother,  who  was  in  his  own  room, 
Eurrounded  with  books,  flushed  and  anxious,  and  trying  to  glance 
over  each  subject  on  which  he  felt  himself  weak. 

'  I  shall  fail  !  I  know  I  shall  !  '  was  his  exclamation.  '  I  wish 
I  had  never  thought  of  it  ! ' 

'  What  ?  did  Dr,  lloxton  think  you  not  likely  to  succeed  ?  '  cried 
Ethel,  in  consternation. 

'  Oh  !  he  said  I  was  certain,  but  what  is  that  ?  We  StoneborougL 
men  only  compare  ourselves  with  each  other.  I  shall  break  down 
to  a  certainty,  and  my  father  will  be  disappointed.' 

'  You  will  do  your  best?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  that.  ^ly  best  will  all  go  away  when  it  comes  to 
»he  point.' 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN-.  301 

*  Surely  not.  It  did  not  go  away  last  time  you  were  examined, 
»nd  why  should  it  now  ?  ' 

'  I  tell  you,  Ethel,  you  know  nothing  about  it.  I  have  not  got 
up  half  what  I  meant  to  have  done.  Here,  do  take  this  book — trj 
me  whether  I  know  this  properly.' 

So  they  went  on,  Ethel  doing  her  best  lo  help  and  encourage, 
and  Norman  in  an  excited  state  of  restless  despair,  which  drove 
away  half  his  senses  and  recollection,  and  his  ideas  of  the  superior 
powers  of  public  school-boys  magnifying  every  moment.  They 
were  summoned  down  stairs  to  prayers,  but  went  up  again  at  once, 
and  more  than  an  hour  subsequently,  when  their  father  paid  one  of 
his  domiciliary  visits,  there  they  still  were,  with  their  Latin  and 
Greek  spread  out,  Norman  trying  to  strengthen  all  doubtful  points, 
but,  in  a  desperate  desultory  manner,  that  only  confused  him  more 
and  more,  till  he  was  obliged  to  lay  his  head  down  on  the  table, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  run  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  before  he  could 
recollect  the  simplest  matter  ;  his  renderings  alternated  with  groans, 
and,  cold  as  was  the  room,  his  cheeks  and  brows  were  flushed  and 
burning. 

The  doctor  checked  all  this,  by  saying,  gravely  and  sternly, 
'  This  is  not  right,  Norman.     "Where  are  all  your  resolutions  ?  ' 

'  I  shall  never  do  it.  I  ought  never  to  have  thought  of  it !  I 
shall  never  succeed  ! ' 

'  What,  if  you  do  not  ?  '  said  Dr.  May,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
Rhoulder. 

'  What !  why  Tom's  chance  lost — you  will  all  be  mortified,'  said 
Norman,  hesitating  in  some  confusion. 

'  I  will  take  care  of  Tom,'  said  Dr.  May. 

'  And  he  will  have  been  foiled !  '  said  Ethel. 

'  If  he  is  ?  ' 

The  boy  and  girl  were  both  silent. 

'  Are  you  striving  for  mere  victory's  sake,  Norman  ?  '  continued 
uis  father. 

'  I  thought  not,'  murmured  Norman. 

'  Successful  or  not,  you  will  have  done  your  utmost  for  us.  You 
would  not  lose  one  jot  of  afi"ection,  or  esteem,  and  Tom  shall  not 
wuflfer.     Is  it  worth  this  agony  ?  ' 

'  No,  it  is  foolish,'  said  Norman,  with  trembling  voice,  almo.staa 
if  he  could  have  burst  into  tears.  He  was  quite  unnerved  by  the 
anxiety  and  toil  with  which  he  had  overtasked  himself,  beyond  hia 
father's  knowledge. 

'  Oh !  papa  ! '  pleaded  Ethel,  who  could  not  bear  to  see  him 
pained. 

*  It  is  foolish,'  continued  Dr.  May,  who  felt  it  was  the  moment 
for  bracing  severity.     '  It  is  rendering  you  unmanly.     It  is  wrong. 

Again  Ethel  made  an  exclamation  of  entreaty. 


302  Tin:  baisv  ciiadt. 

*  It  is  wrong,  I  know,'  repeated  Norman  ;  '  but  you  don't  knoTi 
wliat  it  is  to  get  into  tlic  spirit  of  the  thing.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  do  not  ?  '  said  the  Doctor;  '  I  can  tell  exactly 
what  you  feel  now.  If  I  had  not  been  an  idle  dog,  I  should  have 
gone  through  it  all  many  more  times.' 

'  What  shall  I  do  ?'  asked  Norman,  in  a  worn-out  voice. 

*  I'ut  all  this  out  of  your  mind,  sleep  quietly,  and  don't  open 
another  book.' 

Norman  moved  his  head,  as  if  sleep  were  beyond  his  power, 

'  I  will  read  you  something  to  calm  your  tone,'  said  Dr.  May,  and 
he  took  up  a  Prayer-Book.  '  "  Know  ye  not,  that  they  which  run 
in  a  race,  run  all,  but  one  rcccivcth  the  prize  ?  So  run  that  ye  may 
obtain.  ^  And  every  man  that  striveth  for  the  mastery,  is  temperate 
in  all  things.'  Now  they  do  it  to  obtain  a  corruptible  crown,  but 
we  an  incorruptible."  And,  Norman,  that  is  not  the  struggle  where 
the  race  is  not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong ;  nor  the 
contest,  where  the  conqueror  only  wins  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.' 

Norman  had  cast  down  his  eyes,  and  hardly  made  answer,  but 
the  words  had  evidently  taken  effect.  The  Doctor  only  further 
Dade  him  good  night,  with  a  Avhispered  blessing,  and,  taking  Etliel 
by  the  hand,  drew  her  away. 

When  they  met  the  next  morning,  the  excitement  had  passed 
from  Norman  s  manner,  but  he  looked  dejected  and  resigned.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  lose,  and  was  not  grateful  for  good  wishes; 
he  ought  never  to  have  thouglit,  he  said,  of  competing  with  men 
from  public-schools,  and  he  knew  his  return  of  love  of  vain-glory 
deserved  that  he  should  full.  However,  he  was  now  calm  enough 
not  to  be  likely  to  do  himself  injustice  by  nervousness,  and  Mar- 
garet had  hopes  that  Ilichard's  steady  equable  mind,  would  have  a 
salutary  influence.  So,  commending  Tom's  lessons  to  Ethel,  and 
hearing,  but  not  marking,  countless  messages  to  Richard,  he  set 
forth  upon  his  emprise,  while  his  anxiety  seemed  to  remain  as  a 
legacy  for  those  at  home. 

Poor  Dr.  May  confessed  that  his  practice  by  no  means  agreed 
with  his  precept,  for  he  could  think  of  nothing  else,  and  was  almost 
as  bad  as  Norman,  in  his  certainty  that  the  boy  would  fail  from 
mere  nervousness.  Margaret  was  the  better  companion  for  him 
now,  attaching  less  intensity  of  interest  to  Norman's  success,  than 
did  Ethel;  she  was  the  more  able  to  compose  him,  lud  cheer  hi£ 
bopcB. 


TuE   DAISY    CHAEN'.  303 


CHAP  TEE    XXX. 

•  TVeary  soul,  and  burdened  sore. 

Labouring  with  thy  secret  load, 
Fear  not  all  tliy  griets  to  pour 

la  tills  heart,  love"s  true  abode." 

LVEA  iNSOCENTtCM. 

Te^  had  just  been  brouglit  in  on  the  eighth  evening  from  Xornian'a 
departure,  Tvhen  there  -pras  a  ring  at  the  belL  There  was  a  start, 
and  look  of  expectation.  '  Only  a  patient,'  said  the  Do»5tor ;  but  it 
surely  was  not  for  that  reason  that  he  rose  with  so  much  alacrity  and 
opened  the  door,  nor  was  '  Well,  old  fellow  ?  '  the  greeting  for  his 
patients — so  everybody  sprang  after  him,  and  beheld  something  tall 
taking  off  a  coat,  while  the  voice  said,  '  I  have  got  it.' 

The  mass  of  children  rushed  back  to  Margaret,  screaming,  '  He 
has  got  it !  '  and  then  Aubrey  trotted  out  into  the  hall  again  to  see 
what  Norman  had  got. 

'  A  happy  face  at  least,'  said  Margaret,  as  he  came  to  her.  And 
that  was  not  peculiar  to  Norman.  The  radiance  had  shone  out 
upon  everyone  in  that  moment,  and  it  was  one  buzz  of  happy 
exclamation,  query  and  answer — the  only  tone  of  regret  when  Mary 
spoke  of  Harry,  and  all  at  once  took  up  the  strain — how  glad  poor 
Harry  would  be.  As  to  the  examination,  that  had  been  much  less 
(Jiificult  than  Norman  had  expected ;  in  fact,  he  said,  it  was  lucky 
for  him  that  the  very  subjects  had  been  chosen  in  which  he  was  most 
up — luck  which,  as  the  Doctor  could  not  help  observing,  generally 
did  attend  Norman.  And  Norman  had  been  so  happy  with  Rich- 
ard ;  the  kind,  wise,  elder  brother  had  done  exactly  what  was  best 
for  him  in  soothing  his  anxiety,  and  had  fully  shared  his  feelings, 
and  exulted  in  his  success.  Margaret  had  a  most  triumphant  letter, 
dwelling  on  the  abilities  of  the  candidates  whom  Norman  had  out- 
btripped,  and  the  idea  that  every  one  had  conceived  of  his  talent. 
'  Indeed,'  wrote  Richard,  '  I  f-mcy  the  men  had  never  believed  that 
I  could  have  a  clever  brother  I  am  glad  they  have  seen  what  Nor- 
man can  do.' 

Margaret  could  not  help  reading  this  aloud,  and  it  made  Norman 
blush  with  the  compunction  that  Kichard's  unselfish  pride  in  him 
always  excited.  He  had  much  to  tell  of  his  ecstasy  with  Oxford. 
Stoneborough  Minster  had  been  a  training  in  appreciation  of  its 
hoary  beauty,  but  the  essentially  prosaic  Ilichard  had  never  pre- 
pared him  for  the  impression  that  the  Eeverend  old  University  made 
on  him,  and  he  was  already,  heart  and  soul,  one  of  her  most  loyal 
and  loving  sons,  speaking  of  his  College  and  of  the  whole  Univer- 
sity as  one  who  had  a  right  of  property  in  them,  and  looking,  all 
the  time,  not  elated,  but  contented,  as  if  he  had  found  his  sphere 
and  was  satisfied.     He  had  seen  Cheviot,  too,  and   had  been  very 


304  TIIK   DAISY   CHAIN. 

happy  ill  the  renewed  friendship ;  and  had  been  claimed  as  a  eousin 
by  a  Balliol  man,  a  certain  Norman  Ogilvie,  a  name  well  known 
among  the  Mays.  'And  how  has  Tom  been  getting  on  ? '  he  asked 
wlien  he  returned  to  home  affairs. 

'  Oh  !  I  don't  know,'  said  Ethel.     '  He  will  not  have  my  help  ' 

'  Not  let  you  help  him  ! '  exclaimed  Norman. 

*  No.     He  says  he  wants  no  girls,'  said  Ethel,  laughing. 

'  Foolish  fellow  !  '  said  Norman.  '  I  wonder  what  sort  of  work 
he  has  made.' 

*  Very  funny,  I  should  think,'  said  Ethel,  'judging  by  the  verses 
I  could  sec.' 

The  little  pale  rough-haired  Tom,  in  his  perpetual  coating  of  dust, 
toftly  crept  into  the  room,  as  .f  he  only  wanted  to  elude  observa- 
tion ;  but  Mary  and  Blanche  were  at  once  vociferating  their  news 
in  his  ears,  though  with  little  encouragement — he  only  shook  them 
off  abruptly,  and  would  not  answer  when  they  rer^uired  him  to  bo 
glad. 

Norman  stretched  out  his  arm,  intercepting  him  as  lie  was 
making  for  his  hiding-place  behind  Dr.  May's  arm-chair. 

'  Come,  Aucrust,  how  have  things  gone  on?' 

'Oh!  I  don't  know.' 

'  What's  your  place  ?  ' 

'  Thirteenth ! '  muttered  Tom  in  his  throat,  and  well  he  might, 
for  two  or  tliree  voices  cried  out  that  was  too  bad,  and  that  it  was 
all  his  own  fault,  for  not  accepting  EthePs  lielp.  lie  took  little 
heed,  but  crept  to  his  corner  without  another  word,  and  Mary  knew 
she  should  be  thumped,  if  she  should  torment  him  there. 

Norman  left  him  alone,  but  the  coldness  of  the  little  brother  for 
whom  he  had  worked,  gave  a  greater  chill  to  his  pleasure  than  he 
could  have  supposed  possible,  lie  would  rather  have  had  some 
cordiality  on  Tom's  part,  than  all  the  tongratulations  that  met  him 
the  next  day. 

lie  could  not  rest  contented  while  Tom  continued  to  shrink  from 
him,  and  he  was  the  more  nncasy  when,  on  Saturday  morning,  no 
calls  from  Mary  availed  to  find  the  little  boy,  and  bring  him  to  the 
usual  reading  and  Catechism. 

Margaret  decided  that  they  must  begin  without  him,  and  poor 
Mary's  verse  was  read,  in  consequence,  with  a  most  dolorous  tone. 
As  soon  as  the  books  wore  shut,  she  ran  off,  and  a  few  words  passed 
among  the  elder  ones  about  the  truant — Flora  opining  that  the 
Andersons  had  led  him  away;  Ethel  suggesting  that  his  gloom  must 
arise  from  his  not  being  well ;  and  Margaret  looking  wistfully  at 
Norman,  and  saying  she  feared  thvy  had  judged  much  amiss  last 
spring. 

Norman  heard  in  silence,  and  walked  thoughtfully  into  the 
garden.  Presently  he  caught  Mary's  voice  in  expostulation  :  '  How 
could  you  not  come  to  read ! ' 


TIIE   DAISY    CHAIN.  306 

Girls'  work  ! '  growled  another  voice,  out  of  siglit 
But  Norman,  and  Richard,  and  Harry,  always  come  to  the 
reading.     Everybody  ought.' 

Norman,  who  was  going  round  the  shrubs  that  concealed  the 
speakers  from  him,  here  lost  their  voices,  but,  as  he  emerged  iu 
front  of  the  old  tool-house,  he  heard  a  little  scream  from  Mary,  and, 
at  the  same  moment,  she  darted  back,  and  fell  over  a  heap  of  cab- 
bage-stumps in  front  of  the  old  tool-house.  It  was  no  small  surprise 
to  her  to  be  raised  by  him,  and  tenderly  asked  whether  she  were  hurt. 
vShe  was  not  hurt,  but  she  could  not  speak  without  crying,  and  when 
Norman  begged  to  hear  what  was  the  matter,  and  where  Tom  was, 
she  would  only  plead  for  him — that  he  did  not  intend  to  hurt  her, 
and  that  she  had  been  tcazing  him.  "What  had  he  done  to  frighten 
her  ?  Oh !  he  had  only  run  at  her  with  a  hoe,  because  she  was 
troublesome ;  she  did  not  mind  it,  and  Norman  must  not — and  she 
clung  to  him  as  if  to  keep  him  back,  while  he  pursued  his  researches 
in  the  tool-house,  where,  nearly  concealed  by  a  great  bushel-basket, 
lurked  Master  Thomas,  crouching  down,  with  a  volume  of  Gil  Bias 
in  his  hand. 

'  You  here  !  Tom  !  What  have  you  hidden  yourself  here  for  ? 
What  can  make  you  so  savage  to  Mary  ?  ' 

'  She  should  not  bother  me,'  said  Tom,  sulkily. 

Norman  sent  Mary  away,  pacifying  her  by  promises  that  he 
would  not  revenge  her  quarrel  upon  Tom,  and  then,  turning  the 
basket  upside  down,  and  perching  himself  astride  on  it,  he  began : 
'  That  is  the  kindest,  most  forgiving  little  sister  I  ever  did  see. 
What  possesses  you  to  treat  her  so  ill  ?  ' 

'  I  wasn't  going  to  hurt  her.' 

'  But  why  drive  her  away  ?  Why  don't  you  come  to  read  ?  ' 
No  answer ;  and  Norman,  for  a  moment,  felt  as  if  Tom  were  really 
hopelessly  ill-conditioned  and  sullen,  but  he  persevered  in  restraining 
his  desire  to  cuff  the  ill-humour  out  of  him,  and  continued :  '  Come  ! 
there's  something  wrong,  and  you  will  never  be  better  till  it  is  out. 
Tell  me — don't  be  afraid.     Those  fellows  have  been  at  you  again  ?  ' 

He  took  Tom  by  the  arm  to  draw  him  nearer,  but  a  cry  and  start 
of  pain  were  the  result.  '  So  they  have  licked  you  ?  Eh  ?  What 
have  they  been  doing  ? ' 

'  They  said  they  would  spiflicate  me  if  I  told  ! '  sighed  Tom. 

'  They  shall  never  do  anything  to  you — '  and  by-and-by,  a  sob- 
bing confession  was  drawn  forth,  muttered  at  intervals,  as  low  as 
if  Tom  expected  the  strings  of  onions  to  hear  and  betray  him  to  his 
foes.  Looking  on  him  as  a  deserter,  these  town-boys  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  his  brother's  absence,  to  heap  on  him  every  misery  they 
could  inflict.  There  had  been  a  wager  between  Edward  Anderson 
and  Sam  Axworthy  as  to  what  Tom  could  be  made  to  do,  and  his 
personal  timidity  made  him  a  miserable  victim,  not  merely  beaten 
and  bruised,  but  forced  to  transgress  every  rule  of  right  and  wrong 


306  Tin:  daisy  chain. 

that  bad  been  enforced  on  hh  conscicDce.  On  Sundsij,  tlioy  Lad 
prolited  by  the  absence  of  their  Dnx,  to  have  a  jollification  at  a  little 
]>ublic-house,  not  far  from  the  playing-fields;  and  here  had  Tom 
been  dragged  in,  forced  to  partake  ^vith  them,  and  frightened  with 
tlircats  that  he  had  treated  them  all,  and  -nas  liaHc  to  pay  the  whtile 
bill,  which,  of  course,  he  firmly  believed,  as  well  as  that  he  should 
bo  at  least  half-murdered  if  he  gave  his  father  any  suspicion  that 
the  whole  had  not  been  consumed  by  himself.  Now,  though  poor 
Tom's  conscience  had  lost  many  scruples  during  the  last  sprimr,  the 
oflcuce,  into  which  he  had  been  forced,  was  too  heinous  to  achild 
brought  up  as  he  had  been,  to  be  palliated  even  in  his  own  eyes. 
The  jirufanation  of  Sunday,  and  the  carousal  in  a  public-house,  had 
coinbined  to  fill  him  with  a  sense  of  shame  and  degradation,  which 
was  the  real  cause  that  he  felt  himself  unworthy  to  come  and  read 
with  his  sisters.  His  grief  and  misery  were  extreme,  and  Norman's 
indignation  was  such  as  could  find  no  utterance.  lie  sat  silent, 
quivering  with  anger,  and  clenching  his  fingers  over  the  handle  of 
the  hoc. 

_'  I  knew  it ! '  sighed  Tom.  '  None  of  you  will  ever  ppcak  to  mo 
again ! ' 

'  You !     Why,  August,  man,  I  have  better  hopes  of  you  than 
ever.     You  are  more  really  sorry  now  than  ever  you  were  before.' 
'I  had  never  been  at  the  Green  Man  before,'  said  poor  Tom, 
feeling  his  future  life  stained. 
'  You  never  will  again  ! ' 

'  When  you  are  gone — '  and  the  poor  victim's  voice  died  av/ay. 
'  Tom,  you  will  not  stay  after  me.     It  is  settled  that  wheu  I  go 
to  Balliol,  you  leave  Stoneborough,  and  go  to  Mr.  Wilmot  as  pupil. 
Those  scamps  shall  never  have  you  in  their  clutches  again.' 

It  did  not  produce  the  ecstasy  Norman  had  expected.  The  boy 
still  sat  on  the  ground,  staring  at  his  brother,  as  if  the  good  news 
hardly  penetrated  the  gloom ;  and,  after  a  disappointing  silence, 
recurred  to  the  most  immediate  cause  of  distress:  '  Eight  shillino-s 
and  tenpeuce  half-penny !  Norman,  if  you  would  only  lend  it  to 
me,  you  shall  have  all  my  tin  till  I  have  made  it  up — sixpence  a 
week,  and  half-a-crown  on  New  Year's  Day.' 

'  I  am  not  going  to  pay  Mr.  Axworthy's  reckoning,'  said  Nor- 
man, rather  angril}-.  '  You  will  never  be  better  till  you  have  told 
iijy  father  the  whole.' 

'  Do  you  think  they  will  send  in  the  bill  to  my  father  ? '  asked 
Tom,  in  alarm. 

•  No,  indeed !  that  is  the  last  thing  they  will  do,'  said  Norman; 
but  I  would  not  have  you  come  to  him  only  for  such  a  sneaking 
reason.' 

'  But  the  girls  would  hear  it.  Oh  !  if  I  thought  Mary  and 
Margaret  would  ever  hear  it — Norman,  I  can't — ' 

Norman  assured  him  that  there  was  not  the  slightest  reasoa 


THE   DAIS',    CilAI^".  307 

that  tiicse  passages  slioultl  ever  come  to  the  knowledge  of  liis  sisters 
Tom  was  excessively  afraid  of  liis  father,  but  he  could  not  well  he. 
more  wretched  than  he  was  already ;  and  he  was  brought  to  assent 
when  Norman  showed  him  that  he  had  never  been  happy  since  the 
afiair  of  the  blotting-paper,  when  his  father's  looks  and  tones  had 
become  objects  of  dread  in  his  guilty  conscience.  Was  not  the  only 
means  of  recovering  a  place  in  papa's  esteem  to  treat  him  with  con- 
fidence ? 

Tom  answered  not,  and.  would  only  shudder  when  his  brother 
took  upon  him  to  declare  that  free  confession  would  gain  pardon 
even  for  the  doings  at  the  Green  Man. 

Tom  had  grown  stupified  aud  passive,  and  his  sole  dependence 
was  on  Norman,  so,  at  last,  he  made  no  opposition  when  his  brother 
offered  to  conduct  him  to  his  father  and  speak  for  him.  The  danger 
now  was  that  Dr.  May  should  not  be  forthcoming,  and  the  elder 
brother  was  as  much  relieved,  as  the  younger  was  dismayed,  to  see, 
through  the  drawing-room  window,  that  he  was  standing  beside 
Margaret. 

'  Papa,  can  you  come  and  speak  to  me,'  said  Norman,  '  at  the 
door  ? ' 

'  Coming !  What  now  ? '  said  the  Doctor,  entering  the  hall. 
*  AVhat,  Tom,  my  boy,  what  is  it  ?  '  as  he  saw  the  poor  child,  white, 
cold,  almost  sick  with  apprehension,  with  every  pulse  throbbing,  and 
looking  positively  ill.  He  took  the  chilly,  damp  hand,  which  shook 
nervously,  and  would  fain  have  withdrawn  itself. 

*  Come,  my  dear,  let  us  see  what  is  amiss ; '  and  before  Tom  knew 
what  he  was  doing,  he  had  seated  him  on  his  knee,  in  the  arm-chair 
in  the  study,  and  "was  feeling  his  pulse.  '  There,  rest  your  head! 
Has  it  not  been  aching  all  day  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  think  he  is  ill,'  said  Norman ;  '  but  there  is  something 
he  thinks  I  had  better  tell  you.' 

Tom  would  fain  have  been  on  his  feet,  yet  the  support  of  that 
shoulder  was  inexpressibly  comfortable  to  his  aching  temples,  and 
he  could  not  but  wait  for  the  shock  of  being  roughly  shaken  and  put 
down.  So,  as  his  brother  related  what  had  occurred,  he  crouched 
and  trembled  more  and  more  on  his  father's  breast,  till,  to  his  sur- 
prise, he  found  the  other  arm  patted  round  him  in  support,  draw- 
ing him  more  tenderly  close. 

'  My  poor  little  fellow ! '  said  Dr.  May,  trying  to  look  into  the 
drooping  face,  '  I  grieve  to  have  exposed  you  to  such  usage  as  this  1 
I  little  thought  it  of  Stoneborough  fellows  !  ' 

'  He  is  very  sorry,'  said  Norman,  much  distressed  by  the  con- 
dition of  the  culprit. 

'  I  see  it — I  see  it  plainly,'  said  Dr.  May.  '  Tommy,  my  boy 
why  should  you  tremble  when  you  are  v/itli  me  ?  ' 

'  He  has  been  in  great  dread  of  your  being  displeased.' 

'  My  boy,  do  you  not  know  how  I  forgive  you  ? ' 


308  TIIK    DAlSi'    CHAIN". 

Tom  clung  round  his  neck,  as  if  to  steady  himself.     '  Oh  !  papa 
I  thoufrht  you  vould  never — ' 

'  jSay,  you  r.eed  never  have  tliought  so,  my  boy?  AVhat  hava 
I  done  that  j-ou  should  foar  me  ? ' 

Tom  did  not  speak,  but  nestled  up  to  liim  \vith  more  confidence; 
'  There  !  that's  better  !  Poor  cliild  !  what  he  must  have  suffered  ! 
He  was  not  fit  for  the  place !  I  had  thought  him  looking  ill. 
Little  did  I  guess  the  cause.' 

'  lie  says  his  head  has  ached  ever  since  Sunday,'  said  Norman; 
'  and  I  believe  he  has  hardly  eaten  or  slept  properly  since.' 

*  He  shall  never  be  under  their  power  again  !  Thanks  to  you, 
JS'orman.     Do  you  hear  that,  Tommy  ?  ' 

The  answer  was  hardly  audible.  The  little  boy  was  already 
almost  asleep,  worn  out  with  all  he  had  undergone.  Norman  bcgau 
to  clear  the  sofa,  that  they  might  lay  him  down,  but  his  father 
would  not  hear  of  disturbing  him,  and,  sending  Norman  away,  sat 
still  for  more  than  an  hour,  until  the  child  slowly  awoke,  and 
scarcely  recalling  what  had  happened,  stood  up  between  his  father'sJ 
knees,  rubbing  his  cj^es,  and  looking  bewildered. 

'  You  are  better  now,  my  boy  ? ' 

'  I  thought  you  would  be  very  angry,'  slowly  murmured  Tom, 
as  the  past  returned  on  him. 

'  Never,  while  you  are  sorry  for  your  faults,  and  own  them  freely.' 

'  I'm  glad  I  did,'  said  the  boy,  still  half  asleep.  '  I  did  not 
know  you  would  be  so  kind.' 

'  Ah  !  Tom,  I  fear  it  was  as  much  my  fault  as  yours,  that  you 
did  not  know  it.  But,  my  dear,  there  is  a  pardon  that  can  give 
you  bettc/  peace  than  mine.'- 

'  I  think,'  muttered  Tom,  looking  down — '  I  think  I  could  say 
my  prayers  again  now,  if — ' 

'  If  what,  ni}'  dear  'i ' 

'  If  you  would  help  me,  as  mamma  used — ' 

There  could  be  but  one  response  to  tliis  speech. 

Tom  was  still  giddy  and  uuwell,  his  whole  frame  aff"ectcd  by  the 
troubles  of  the  last  week,  and  Dr.  May  arranged  him  on  the  sofa, 
and  desired  him  to  be  quiet,  ofi'ering  to  send  Mary  to  be  his  com- 
panion. Tom  was  languidly  pleased,  but  renewed  his  entreaty,  that 
his  confession  might  be  a  secret  from  his  sisters.  Dr.  May  pro- 
mised, and  Mary,  (juite  satisfied  at  being  taken  into  favour,  asked 
no  questions,  but  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  in  playing  at  draughts 
with  him,  and,  in  having  inflicted  on  her  the  history  of  the  Bloody 
Fire  King's  Cihost — a  work  of  Tom's  imagination,  which  he  wan 
wont  to  extemporize,  to  the  extreme  terror  of  much  enduring  Mary. 

When  Dr.  May  had  called  Mary,  he  next  summoned  Norman, 
who  found  him  in  the  ball,  putting  ou  his  hat,  and  looking  vciy  steru 
and  determined. 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  309 

*  Norman  ! '  said  he,  hastily,  '  don't  say  a  word — It  must  be 
done — Hoxton  must  hear  of  this.' 

Norman's  face  expressed  utter  consternation. 

'  It  is  not  your  doing.  It  is  no  concern  of  yours,'  said  Dr.  May, 
walking  impetuously  into  the  garden.  '  I  find  my  boy  ill,  broken 
down,  shattered — it  is  the  usage  of  this  crew  of  fellows — what  right 
have  I  to  conceal  it — leave  other  people's  sons  to  be  so  served  ? ' 

'  I  believe  they  did  so  to  Tom  out  of  ill-will  to  me,'  said  Nor- 
iLan,  '  and  because  they  thought  he  had  ratted.' 

'  Hush  !  don't  argue  against  it,'  said  Dr.  May,  almost  petulantly. 
'  I  have  stood  a  great  deal  to  oblige  you,  but  I  cannot  stand  this. 
When  it  is  a  matter  of  corruption,  base  cruelty — no,  Norman,  it  is 
not  right — not  another  word  ! ' 

Norman's  words  had  not  been  many,  but  he  felt  a  conviction 
that,  in  spite  of  the  dismay  and  pain  to  himself.  Dr.  May  ought  to 
meet  with  submission  to  his  judgment,  and  he  acquiesced  by  silence. 

*  Don't  you  see,'  continued  the  Doctor  ;  '  if  they  act  thus,  when 
your  back  is  turned,  what  is  to  happen  next  half?  'Tis  not  for 
Tom's  sake,  but  how  could  we  justify  it  to  ourselves,  to  expose 
other  boys  to  this  usage  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Norman,  not  without  a  sigh.     '  I  suppose  it  must  be.' 

'  That  is  right,'  said  Dr,  May,  as  if  much  relieved.  '  I  knew  you 
must  see  it  in  that  light.     I  do  not  mean  to  abuse  your  confidence.' 

'  No,  indeed,'  answered  Norman,  warmly. 

'  But  you  see  yourself,  that  where  the  welfare  of  so  many  is  at 
stake,  it  would  be  wickedness — yes,  wickedness  to  be  silent.  Could 
I  see  that  little  fellow  prostrated,  trembling  in  my  arms,  and  think 
of  those  scamps  inflicting  the  same  on  other  helpless  children — away 
from  their  homes  ! ' 

'  I  see,  I  see ! '  said  Norman,  carried  along  by  the  indignation 
and  tenderness  that  agitated  his  father's  voice  in  his  vehemence — 
'it  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done.' 

'  It  would  be  sharing  the  guilt  to  hide  it,'  said  Dr.  May. 

'  Very  well,'  said  Norman,  still  reluctantly.  '  What  do  you 
wish  me  to  do  ?  You  see,  as  Dux,  I  know  nothing  about  it.  It 
happened  while  I  was  away.' 

'  True,  true,'  said  his  father.  '  You  have  learnt  it  as  brother 
not  as  senior  boy.  Yes,  we  had  better  have  you  out  of  the  matter. 
Tt  is  I  who  complain  of  their  usage  of  my  sou.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Norman,  with  gratitude. 

'  You  have  not  told  me  the  names  of  these  fellows.  No,  I  had 
best  not  know  them.' 

'  I  think  it  might  make  a  difi'erence,'  hesitated  Norman, 

'  No,  no,  I  will  not  hear  them.  It  ought  to  make  none.  The 
fact  is  the  same,  be  they  who  they  may.' 

The  Doctor  let  himself  out  at  the  garden  gate,  and  strode  ofi"  at 
a  rapid  pace,  conscious  perhaps,  iu  secret,  that  if  he  did  not  at  onca 


310  THE   DAISY    CHAIN. 

yield  to  tlic  iiupulso  of  resentment,  good-nature  would  overpovrci 
the  sense  of  justice.  His  son  returned  to  the  Louse  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  yet  honnnriug  the  generosity  that  had  respected  his  scruples 
when  merely  his  own  worldly  loss  was  involved,  but  sot  them  aside 
when  the  good  of  others  was  concerned.  By-and-by  Dr.  May  re 
appeared.  The  headmaster  had  been  thoroughly  roused  to  anger, 
and  had  bogged  at  once  to  examine  Ma}'  junior,  for  whom  his  father 
was  now  come. 

Tom  was  quite  unprepared  for  such  formidable  consequences  of 
his  confession,  and  began  by  piteous  tears  and  sobs,  and  when  these 
had,  with  some  difficulty,  been  pacified,  he  proved  to  be  really  so 
unwell  and  exhausted,  that  his  father  could  not  take  him  to  Minster 
street,  and  was  obliged  to  leave  him  to  his  brother's  keeping,  while 
he  returned  to  the  school. 

Upon  this.  Dr.  Iloxton  came  himself,  and  the  sisters  were  ex- 
tremely excited  and  alarmed  by  the  intelligence  that  he  was  in  the 
study  with  papa  and  Tom. 

Then  away  went  the  gentlemen ;  and  Mary  was  again  called  to 
comfort  Tom,  who,  broken  down  into  the  mere  longing  for  sympathy, 
sobbed  out  all  his  troubles  to  her,  while  her  eyes  expanded  more 
and  more  in  horror,  and  her  soft  heart  giving  way,  she  cried  quite 
as  pitifully,  and  a  great  deal  more  loudly';  and  so  the  other  sisters 
learnt  the  whole,  and  Margaret  was  ready  for  her  father,  when  he 
came  in,  in  the  evening,  harassed  and  sori-owful.  Ilis  anger  was 
all  gone  now,  and  he  was  excessively  grieved  at  finding  that  the 
ringleaders,  Samuel  Axworthy  and  p]dward  Anderson,  could,  in 
Dr.  Hoxton's  opinion,  receive  no  sentence  but  expulsion,  wliicli  v.'as 
to  be  pronounced  on  them  on  IMonda}'. 

Sam  Axworthy  was  the  son  of  a  low,  uneducated  man,  and  his 
best  chance  had  been  the  going  to  this  school;  but  he  was  of  a 
surly,  obstinate  temper,  and  showed  so  little  compunction  that  even 
such  superabundant  kindness  as  Dr.  May's,  could  not  find  compas- 
sion for  him ;  especially  since  it  had  appeared  that  Tom  liad  been  by 
1)0  means  the  only  victim,  and  that  he  had  often  been  the  promoter 
of  the  like  mal-practices,  whicli  many  boys  wcx*e  relieved  to  be 
forced  to  expose. 

For  Edward  Anderson,  however,  or  rather  for  his  mother.  Dr. 
May  was  very  sorry,  and  had  even  interceded  for  his  pardon ;  but 
Dr.  Iloxton,  though  slow  to  be  roused,  was  far  less  placable  thaii 
the  other  Doctor,  and  would  not  hear  of  anything  but  the  most 
rigorous  justice. 

'  Poor  Mrs.  Anderson,  witli  her  pride  in  her  children  ! '  Flora 
spoke  it  with  a  shade  of  contemptuous  pity,  but  it  made  her  father 
groan. 

*  I  shall  never  be  able  to  look  in  her  face  again  !  I  shull  neve: 
Bcc  that  boy  without  feeling  that  I  have  ruined  him.' 

'  He  needed  nobody  to  do  that  for  hi;:!.'  s:'.id  Flora. 


THE   DAISY   CHAIX.  311 

'  With  every  disadvantage  ! '  contiEued  Dr.  May ;  '  unable  even 
to  remember  bis  father  !  Why  could  I  not  be  more  patient  and 
forbearing  V  ' 

_ '  Oh  !  papa  ! '  was  the  general  crj- — Xorman's  voice  givinc  de- 
cision to  the  sisters'  exclamation. 

'  Perhaps,'  said  3Iargaret,  '  the  shock  may  be  the  best  thing  for 
him.' 

'  Right,  Margaret,'  said  her  father.  '  Sometimes  such  a  thing 
is  the  first  that  shows  what  a  course  of  evil  really  is,' 

'  They  are  an  affectionate  family  too,'  said  Margaret,  '  and  his 
mother's  grief  may  have  an  effect  on  him.' 

'  If  she  does  not  treat  him  as  an  injured  hero,'  said  Flora  • 
'  besides,  I  see  no  reason  for  regret.  These  are  but  two,  and  the 
school  is  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  them.' 

'Yes,'  said  Norman;  '  I  believe  that  Ashe  will  be  at]e  to  keep 
much  better  order  without  Axworthy.  It  is  much  better  as  it  is, 
but  Harry  will  be  very  sorry  to  hear  it,  and  I  wish  this  half  was 
over.' 

Poor  Mrs.  Anderson  !  her  shower  of  notes  rent  the  heart  of  the 
one  Doctor,  but  were  tossed  carelessly  aside  by  the  other.  On 
that  Sunday,  Xorman  held  various  conversations  with  his  probable 
successor,  Ashe,  a  gentle,  well-disposed  boy,  hitherto  in  much  dread 
of  the  post  of  authority,  but  owning,  that,  in  Axworthy's  absence, 
the  task  would  be  comparatively  easy,  and  that  Anderson  would 
probably  originate  far  less  mischief 

Edward  Anderson  himself  fell  in  Xorman"s  vray  in  the  street, 
and  was  shrinking  aside,  when  a  word,  of  not  unfriendly  greeting] 
caused  him  to  quicken  his  steps,  and  say,  hesitatingly,  '  I  say,  how 
i.s  August  ? ' 

'  Better,  thank  you ;  he  will  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two.' 

'  I  say,  we  would  not  have  bullied  him  so,  if  he  had  not  been  in 
Fuch  a  fright  at  nothing.' 

'  I  dare  say  not. ' 

'  I  did  not  mean  it  all,  but  that  sort  of  thing  makes  a  fellow  go 
on,'  continued  Edward,  hanging  down  his  head,  very  sorrowful  and 
downcast. 

'  If  it  had  only  been  fair  bullying;  but  to  take  him  to  that  place 
— to  teach  him  falsehood — '  said  Norman. 

Edward's  eyes  were  full  of  tears ;  he  almost  owned  the  whole. 
He  had  not  thought  of  such  things,  and  then  Axworthy — It  wag 
more  evident  from  manner,  than  words,  that  the  boy  did  repent,  and 
was  greatly  overcome  both  by  his  own  disgrace,  and  his  mother's 
distress,  wishing  earnestly  to  redeem  his  character,  and  declaring, 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  that  he  would  avoid  his  former 
offences.  He  was  emboldened  at  last  to  say,  with  hesitation, '  Could 
not  you  speak  to  Doctor  Hoxton  for  me  ?  ' 

'  My  father  has  said  all  he  could  in  your  behalf 


512  THE   DAISY   CHAIN. 

Edward's  eye  glanced  towards  Norman  in  wonder,  as  he  recol 
Icctcd  that  the  Mays  must  know  that  a  word  from  him  would  have 
saved  Norman  from  unjust  puni.slnncnt,  and  the  loss  of  the  scholar- 
ship, and  he  said,  '  good  night,'  and  turned  aside  to  his  own  home, 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Norman  took  another  turn,  looked  up  at  the  sky,  twisted  his 
hands  together  in  perplexity,  mumbled  something  about  hating  to 
dc  a  thing  when  it  was  all  for  no  use,  and  then  marched  off  towards 
Minster-street,  witli  a  pace  like  his  father's  the  day  before. 

AVhen  he  came  forth  again  from  Dr.  Hoxton's  study,  he  did  not 
believe  that  his  intercession  had  produced  the  least  cfifect,  and  there 
was  a  sense  of  vexation  at  the  position  which  he  had  assumed.  If  o 
went  home,  and  said  nothing  on  the  subject ;  but  when,  on  Monday, 
the  school  was  assembled,  and  the  judgment  announced,  it  was 
Axworthy  alone  whose  friends  had  been  advised  to  remove  him. 

.  Anderson  received  a  severe  punishment,  as  did  all  those  who 
had  shared  in  the  revel  at  the  Green  Man.  Even  Tom,  and  another 
little  boy,  who  had  been  likewise  drawn  in,  were  obliged  to  stay 
witliin  narrow  bounds,  and  to  learn  heavy  impositions;  and  a  stern 
reprimand  and  exhortation  were  given  to  the  school  collectively. 
Anderson,  who  had  seen  from  the  window  that  turn  towards  Min- 
ster-street, drew  his  own  conclusions,  and  was  not  insensible  to  tlie 
generosity  that  had  surpassed  his  hopes,  though  to  his  faltering 
attempt  at  thanks,  Norman  replied  that  he  did  not  believe  it  was 
owing  to  him,  and  never  exposed  himself  to  Flora's  wonder,  by 
declaring  at  home  what  he  had  done. 

So  the  last  weeks  of  the  half-year  passed  away  with  the  boys  in 
a  subdued,  but  hopeful  manner,  and  the  reformation,  under  Norman's 
auspices,  progressed  so  well,  that  Ashe  might  fairly  expect  to  reap 
the  benefit  of  the  discipline,  established  at  so  much  cost. 

31  r.  Wilmot  had  looked  on,  and  given  his  help,  but  he  was  pre- 
paring to  leave  Stoncborough,  and  there  was  great  concern  at  the 
parting  with  such  a  friend.  Ethel,  especially,  mourned  the  loss  to 
Cocksmoor,  and,  for  though  hers  had  been  the  executive  part,  his 
had  been  the  head,  and  he  was  almost  equally  grieved  to  go  from 
the  newly-begun  work. 

Margaret  lamented  the  loss  of  her  kind  counsellor,  and  the  ready 
hearer  of  her  anxieties  for  the  children.  Writing  could  ill  supply 
the  place  of  their  conversations,  and  she  feared  likewise  that  her 
father  would  feel  the  want  of  his  companionship.  The  promise  of 
visits,  and  the  intercourse  kept  up  l)y  Tom's  passing  to  and  fro,  was 
the  best  consolation. 

Poor  INIargaret  had  begun  to  flag,  both  in  strength  and  spirits 
as  winter  approached,  but  there  came  a  revival  in  the  shape  of  '  Ship 
Letters  !  '  Alan  wrote  cheerfully  and  graphically,  with  excellent 
accounts  of  Harry,  who,  on  his  side,  sent  very  joyous  and  charac- 
teristic despatches,  only  wishing  that  he  could   present  Mary  with 


THE   DAISY    CHAIN.  313 

all  the  monkeys  and  pan'ots  lie  had  seen  at  Rio,  as  well  as  the  little 
ruby-erested  humming-birds,  that  always  reminded  him  of  Miss 
Rivers. 

With  the  Christmas  holidays,  Hector  Ernescliffe  came  from  Eton, 
as  to  a  home,  and  was  received  by  Margaret  as  a  sort  of  especial 
charge.  It  was  pretty  to  see  how  he  turned  to  her  as  something 
peculiarly  his  own,  and  would  sit  on  a  footstool  by  her,  letting 
himself  be  drawn  into  confidence,  and  dwelling  on  his  brother's  past 
doings,  and  on  future  schemes  for  Maplewood.  For  the  rest,  he 
restored  to  the  house  the  atmosphere  of  boy,  which  had  somewhat 
departed  with  Harry.  Mary,  who  had  begun  to  be  tamed  down, 
ran  more  wild  than  ever,  to  the  utter  despair  of  Miss  Winter ;  and 
Tom,  now  that  his  connexion  with  the  Whichcote  foundation  was 
over,  and  he  was  no  more  cowed  by  the  sight  of  his  tyrants,  came 
out  in  a  new  light.  He  put  on  his  boy-nature,  rioted  like  the  rest, 
acquired  colour  in  his  cheeks,  divested  his  jacket  of  perpetual  dust, 
had  his  hair  cut,  brushed  up  a  crest  on  his  head,  and  ran  about  no 
longer  a  little  abject,  but  a  merry  lad. 

Ethel  said  it  was  a  change  from  Horrid-locks  to  Harfagre  ;  Mar- 
garet said  little,  but,  like  her  father,  she  blessed  Norman  in  her  heart 
for  having  given  back  the  boy  to  his  father's  confidence,  and  saved 
him  so  far  from  the  terrible  course  of  deceit  and  corruption.  She 
could  not  much  take  to  heart  the  mad  exploits  of  the  so-called  boys, 
even  though  she  spent  three  hours  in  heart-beatings  on  Christmas 
Eve,  when  Hector,  Mary,  Tom,  Blanche,  and  the  dog  Toby,  were 
lost  the  whole  day.  However  they  did  come  back  at  six  o'clock, 
having  been  deluded  by  an  old  myth  of  George  Larkins,  into  start- 
ing for  a  common,  three  miles  beyotiw  Cocksmoor,  in  search  of 
mistletoe,  with  scarlet  berries,  and  yellow  holly,  with  leaves  like  a 
porcupine  !  Failing  these  wonders,  they  had  been  contenting  them- 
selves with  scarlet  holly,  in  the  Drydale  plantations,  when  a  rough 
voice  exclaimed,  '  Who  gave  you  leave  to  take  that  ?  '  whereupon 
Tom  had  plunged  into  a  thicket,  and  nearly  '  scratched  out  both  his 
eyes  ;  '  but  Hector  boldly  standing  his  ground,  with  Blanche  in  his 
hand,  the  woodman  discovered  that  here  was  the  Miss  Mary,  of 
whom  his  little  girls  talked  so  much,  thereupon  cut  down  the 
choicest  boughs,  and  promised  to  leave  a  full  supply  at  Dr.  May's. 
Margaret  could  have  been  angry  at  the  taking  the  young  ladies  on 
so  mad  a  scheme,  but  then  Mary  was  so  happy,  and  as  to  Hector, 
how  scold  him,  when  he  had  lifted  Blanche  over  every  ditch,  and 
had  carried  her  home  one  mile  on  his  back,  and  another.  Queen'? 
cushion  fashion,  between  him  and  Mary  ? 

Flora,  meanwhile,  went  her  own  way.  The  desire  of  compensating 
for  what  had  passed  with  Norman,  led  to  great  civilities  from  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Hoxton,  which  nobody  was  at  liberty  to  receive  except 
Flora.  Pretty,  graceful  and  pleasing,  she  was  a  valuable  compan- 
ion to  a  gentle  little,  inane  lady,  with  more  time  and  money  than 
Vol.  I.— 14  . 


314  TIIK    DAISY    CHAIN. 

she  knew  what  to  do  with  ;  and  Mrs.  Hoxton,  who  was  of  a  supferior 
grade  to  the  Stonebo rough  ladies  in  general,  was  such  a  chaperon 
as  Flora  was  glad  to  secure.  Dr.  3Iay's  old  loyal  feelings  could 
not  help  regarding  her  notice  of  his  daughter  as  a  favour  and  kind- 
ness, and  Margarc4;  could  find  no  tangible  objections,  nor  any  pre- 
cedent from  her  mother's  conduct,  even  had  anyone  had  the  power 
to  interfere  with  one  so  quiet,  reasonable  and  determined  as  Flora. 
So  the  intimacy  became  closer  and  closer,  and  as  the  winter 
passed  on.  Flora  gradually  became  established  as  the  dear  friend  and 
assistant,  without  whom  Mrs.  Hoxton  could  give  no  party.  Further, 
Flora  took  the  grand  step  of  setting  up  a  copperplate  and  cards  of 
'  Miss  Flora  May,'  went  out  frequently  on  morning  calls  with  Mrs. 
Hoxton  and  her  bay  horses,  and"  when  Dr.  May  refused  his  share  jjf 
invitations  to  dinner  with  the  neighbours  in  the  country,  Flora  gen» 
erally  found  that  she  could  go  under  the  Hoxtons'  guardianship. 


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"  Scarcely  any  modern  English  authoress  stands  so  high  as  Miss 
Sewell ;  and  so  long  as  the  English  language  exists,  such  books  as 
•Amy  Herbert,'  '  Gertrude,'  etc.,  will  continually  be  sought  for." 


TJiacJceray, 

The  popular  Novels  of  W.  M.  Thackeray,  comprising; 


THE    LUCK    OP    BARRT 

LYNDON. 
CONFESSIONS  OF  PITZ- 

BOODLE. 
MR,  BROWN'S  LETTERS. 
JEAMES'S   DIARY, 
MEN'S    WIVES, 
PARIS  SKETCH-BOOK, 


PUNCH'S  PRIZE  NOVEL- 
ISTS, 

A  SHABBY  GENTEEL 
STORY. 

THE  YELLOWPLUSH  PA- 
PERS. 

BOOK  OF  SNOBS. 


12  vols,  in  6,  12rao.     Cloth,  $9.00;     Half  Calf,  extra,  $18.00. 


3L.  O  "3?  H  .A.  I  I^ - 

.1  NOVEL. 

Bj  the  Right  Honorable  BEN'JA]10  DISRAELI,  LaU  Frime  HinidUr  of  Great  Britain. 

"NOsse  hffic  omnia  salus  est  adolesccntiilis."— 7Vren<tM«. 

After  a  silence  of  twenty-three  years  Oiis  I'^st  work,  "  Tancred,"  was  pnb- 
nsbcd  in  1847),  tliia  eminent  En<;iisii  novelist  reappears  witli  a  work  in  1)1b 
be^t  style.  '"Lothair"  lias  all  tlic  brilliant  wit,  the  keen  and  sparkling 
satire,  and  the  refined  grace,  of  the  moj-t  popular  of  its  predecessor?,  u 
deals  with  current  topics  of  the  deepest  inteix-ft— with  Fuiiianism,  Ritual- 
Ism,  the  Catholic  Question,  tlic  intri;,'ues  of  the  Jesuits,  etc.,  etc. 

NOTICES  OF  THS  PRESS. 

"  There  is  not  a  fast  character,  a  fast  trait,  or  a  fast  phrase,  in  the  whole 
of'Lothair,'  yet  the  story  is  a  story  of  yesterday— almost  of  to-day— and 
comes  fresh  and  warm  from  the  author's  study.  .  .  'Lothair' will  be  read 
by  the  whole  world,  will  provoke  immense  discussion,  and  will  greatly 
deepen  the  Interest  with  which  the  author's  own  character,  genius,  and 
career,  have  long  been  contemplated  by  the  nation." — London  Daily  Sews. 

"  '  Lothair '  gives  proof  of  rare  originality,  versatility,  flexibility,  force,  and 
freshness.  One  can  only  glance  over  the  merits  of  a  novel  so  prej^ant  with 
thought  and  character,  nor  would  we  wish  to  do  more  were  it  possible.  We 
chould  be  very  sorry  to  weaken  the  interest  that  must  accompany  the  peru- 
sal of  the  book.  We  had  thought  Mr.  Disraeli  dared  a  great  deal  in  risking 
his  reputation  on  another  novel,  but  now  that  we  have  read  it  we  do  not  feel 
called  upon  to  pay  him  many  compliments  on  his  courage.  As  he  wrote  he 
must  have  felt  that  the  risk  was  illusory,  and  assured  himself  that  his  pow- 
ers had  brightened  instead  of  rusting  in  half  a  lifetime  of  repose."— Xo/tdon 
TimeB. 

"As  a  series  of  brilliant  sketches  of  character,  with  occasional  digres. 
eions  into  abstract  and  speculative  topics, '  Lothair '  need  not  fear  comparison 
with  the  most  sparkling  of  its  authors  previous  works." — London  Observer. 

"Nothing  of  the  original  verve  of  Mr.  Disraeli's  style  has  been  lost  by 
the  lapse  of  years.  Frosli  as '  Coningsby,'  vigorous  as  '  Vivian  Grey,'  tender 
a-i  '  Henrietta  Temple  '  enthralling  as  'Tancred,' humorous  as  any  of  his 
former  works,  'Lothair.'  apart  from  the  interest  attaching  to  it  on  account 
of  the  position  of  its  author,  would  be  ihe  literary  success  of  the  seasou."— 
London  Standard. 

"  As  a  literary  production  the  new  story  is  all  that  the  admirers  of '  Vivian 
Orey' could  have  wished.  The  deft  hand  has  lost  none  of  its  cunnin".  The 
wealth  of  i;lowing  description,  whose  richness  becomes  at  times  almost  a 
painful  enjoyment,  the  keen  satire,  the  sparkling  epigram,  the  wonderful 
sketches  of  "society,  the  airy  skimming  over  the  surface  of  life,  touching 
upon  its  fashionable  graces,  laughing  a  little  at  its  fasliiouable  follies— all  are 
liere  as  we  knew  tlieui  of  old.  The  brightness  is  undimmod  and  the  spirit 
Is  unsubdued." — Xeio  York  Tribune. 

In  1  vol.,  cloth,  12mo,  price  $2.00  ;  also,  in  paper,  octavo,  price  $1.00. 

♦*♦  Copies  of  cither  mailed,  post-free,  to  any  address  within  the  United 
States,  on  receipt  of  price.  

UNIFORM  EDITION  OF  DISRAELI'S  NOVELS. 

The  undersigned  will  pubMsh  immediately  a  cheap  uniform  edition  o( 
Ditnicli's  novels,  octavo,  paper  covers,  a?  follows : 

I.  IIRNTtlETTATEMPLE.    50c.        IV.  ALROY.    50c. 

It    VENETLV.    50c.  V.  CONTAKI.NI  FLE>nXa.    BOc. 

HI    THE  YOUNG   DUKE.     SOc.  VL  VIVIAN   GHEY.    COc. 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  PnbUshers,   New  York. 


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Yonge,  Charlotte  I^fary 

The  Daisy  chain,  or,  Asp- 


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